I'm Awake...

In a very strange place. Life is changing, as always, of course, but something feels different. Those days when you awake with a clear head and a full heart, and you know something’s changing, though you're not sure what, but you know not to be scared. To stand still for a moment, and watch...wait...it's changing, and maybe this time, for the best.

I'm in a very strange state. My mind is racing, yet I feel I'm in slow motion. Leaves falling, and Baby Girl rushing past, yet I'm walking the dirtroad in silence. Each step is thoughtful, careful. Quiet. I smile, and my eyes fill with tears because I know something is over. A chapter of my life is closing, and as a writer, I know chapters...I know an ending when I see it.

I know it's time to write another novel. To take it seriously, and be the best damn writer I can be.

Not be distracted. Not be sad. Not be lonely, or wanting, or selfish, or needy. Not be so isolated. Yet unseen.

I'm simply stepping away, climbing over the fence, and where's Ash? someone asks. Everyone smiles and nods, and says, Ah, there she is, walking slowly now, but come November, she'll be running...full speed ahead towards the sunset, through the tall grass. I know. Said Huck Finn, I been there before.

And I miss that field. That tall grass.

Aiming for the sunset.

You've got to catch it, though, while it last. Or else you'll freeze to death.

Novel Land and the field you have to cross, the fence, to climb, the sun, to catch, it's a cold and lonely place. You can't fall. You can't stop. You can't give up at the first sign of bad prose or weak plot. There are living things that hide amongst that tall grass. They will devour you, given the chance. Those little creatures, those monsters, they spawn from our own self doubt. Waiting...watching. Destroying all dreams. Killing all writers, should we stop, or should we fall, our stories won't be told.

...

In my head: all that I just wrote; change, and the monsters in the grass. How I fear them, yet how excited I am for November, and this, my third real attempt at noveling.

In my heart: I am not well. Healing, though, I think.

In my life: I have so many stories to tell...I've been busy, though, and time must be made for telling stories. Hopefully I'll find that time, not only for me, but for others. Those moments when the monsters are sleeping, and I can stop and breathe easy for the chance to say Hi, how are you? I want and need you in my life.

...

One last story on this short and sunlit morning:

I drove out to the Lake again last Tuesday. I parked upon a steep hill to watch the sunset. The lake to one side, a green valley to the other, full of trees, their leaves beginning to change. Fall. Gold light upon their heads, and my face, through the window in the car, I said aloud everything to everyone I was thinking of. Those who find their way into my heart and into my head, and some of them I want there, all of them I need there, and after saying my thoughts aloud, I said to myself, I want to be happy. I want to live.

I want to watch the sunset over beautiful lakes. Clear water. Sitting on wooden boat docks, writing. Excited for novels, and each new day.

I don't want to fall into that valley where I'd surely break my neck. And who would find me, as I'm dieing, but the monsters in the grass.