when writing is the best thing in the world, even better than chocolate and trips to Italy

I had the most beautiful, brilliant, joyous writing day yesterday! Every word was sheer fun. The air crackled with ideas so that my hair got static and stood on end. A shimmering window opened in the air and butterflies flew in. A polite goblin brought me a key on a golden pillow. I don't know what it opens yet, but I'm sure it's something awesome.

(Funny, when I began that sentence, I didn't know what the goblin would be doing, but the key thing came out of nowhere, and it really expresses how I feel about what I wrote yesterday: I don't know what it "opens" but I'm sure it's going to be awesome.)

As I mentioned yesterday, I was planning to write just for fun. Not on the project I've been trying to jumpstart, but something random that had just sprung glimmering into my head. I had been a little down about lack of inspiration on the other project, and just wanted to write in the spirit of the Sunday Scribblings I have done that began as tiny random seeds and grew into strange and wonderful vines. All the Lips Touch stories, and others: the one about the mischievous ghost girl, or the girl who learns things from ghosts; the one about the witch-child who put her soul in the collection plate and then turned indian-giver and snatched it back. The one about gentlemen sending their phantoms to the homes of the girls they love, and girls who dance with overwintering angels at the beach. And the earliest one of all, from way back when: about the eleventh god, and bats, and chocolate.

Weird little ideas that I love every second of. Well, that's what I needed yesterday, and that's what I got. Oh joy, joy, joy. Skip, skip, skip. I love what I wrote yesterday. LOVE IT. So, of course, I'm going to keep on with it.

I have ideas, but they're not strict. There's such a joy in letting serendipities occur, and when I'm really following a plan, that's less likely to happen. Usually, that's just how I have to write, though. The Dreamdark books require a certain level of organization that sometimes wars against serendipity. Finding a balance is a challenge. I haven't figured out how to write a novel in the spirit of a Sunday Scribbling. I don't know if this new story wants to be a story, a novella, a novel, what. I don't know. For now, I'm just going to play. I know if it keeps growing, it will get harder. But that's a worry for another day.

This reminds me about the need for PLAY in creativity. There's much WORK in creativity too, but sometimes I let the work smoosh out the play, and I need to get it back. You know, call it like a kitty. "Here, kittykittykittykittykitty!" Bribe it with morsels.

Oh! Speaking of morsels, this morning I was running some errands and right out in front of the drug store, when I went to my car, a scene of life and death was playing itself out right at my rear bumper: a hawk, a big, gorgeous hook-beaked hawk was in the act of murdering a pigeon, and when I surprised it, it dropped its and flew up into a tree. Pigeon, poor little lunchmeat, twitched a bit then died, and the hawk watched hawkishly and waited for me to leave.

I also saw a gorgeous Rhodesian Ridgeback without a ridge. I didn't know that happened! Her owner said she was the only one in the litter without one. Mutant.