It’s that time of year I loved and dreaded as a child, teen, and still as an adult…Labour Day weekend.
The weekend always promised the start of new pencils and pens flowing across blank pages in new notebooks. New sharp clean crayons waiting for their first drawing and colouring. So much promise.
So much fear.
I don’t like the Fall or Winter. Mainly because it meant back to school. While I actually did like school, I was horrible at it. I never saw the same poetry meaning. Never the same point of reference. Rarely, understood why no one else dreamt like me…with history and even geography. Many a time I had to remind myself that one does not mention their imaginary self within a television show during a recap conversation. No one talks about that.
I was a social nervous, scared kid and it would be decades before I understood it all. Well, I still don’t really understand it, but I know how to work with it.
Labour Day is my second most unfavourable day. I don’t like New Year’s Eve/Day either.
I don’t like saying goodbye. The whole ending of something as if it was a bad thing. First thing…summer doesn’t end the first weekend of September. It continues for two weeks or so afterwards…according to humankind’s calendar. New Year’s Eve/Day, another humankind’s making. A year for me makes more sense to be the day I was born, if we really want to mark time. Problem, as we can all tell, there’s at least one person born every day.
This was supposed to be a posting for me as a writer, but it feels more like one for my insight blog: Life Becomes Understanding. Truthfully, it fits both, so I’ll stick with my writer’s blog.
You see, this is why I’m a writer. I look at life a little off angle. I have questions that have nothing to do with the subject being taught. I itch to use the utensils of writing, but the blank page makes me nervous. I want the colours to blend and make the vision in my mind, but the talent is a tad behind the sight.
I always ask…why; what if; how; which; I wonder; could, should, would. I want to see beyond the sky and deeper within…me, the earth.
I could sit all day and dream and call it a productive one…or realize I’ve let time slip away, again.
I’ve argued word usage and word changes. I’ve hunted for the best one only to use the simplest and recognizing it was the best after all.
I’ve tortured myself with doubt and blushed at praise. And, still I witness the pull this machine has over me. The call of the paper and pen. The lure of the pencil begging to be sharpened.
And now the words tell me we are done once more. They have ended their spiel. Hopefully, just for here as we still need to give voice to a certain story or two. I do hope they won’t fight me this round, maybe it’s the characters who are arguing with how I’m telling their stories.
There I go again, talking like a writer…writing like a writer? Typing? Worry about the right word later, in the edits.