Dreaming of the sea...

My daughter on Mandalay Beach at sunset. Does it get any better?

Another Monday...

Well, another Monday is here, and here I sit... thinking about the things that I need to do: cleaning, paying the bills, doing the filing, deciding what I should have for dinner...The things I want to do are much different. I want to take a walk on the beach, listen to the waves, maybe sketch out a dream or make a sand castle. I want to write a new story. I want to listen to Rachmaninoff, and dance in my living room. Yet life consists of the good and bad, the things we want to do vs. the things we must. So off I go to clean out the refridgerator, and make sure there's enough money in the bank to cover the car payment. My mind will be deep in the sea, swimming with Mermaids and Octopi. There will be days to write it all down another time.

Eat, sleep, breathe, write.

Yesterday I was writing in my journal and realizing what a basket-case I would be if I didn't write. I started thinking about how true artists of any type need to do what they do. Whether it's the authors of novels or poets or composers or painters. Throughout history, people have created things to express emotions that they couldn't express as well in any other way but through their art. An idea gnaws at their beings, eating them up until it forces it's way out. Sometimes they can't get it out fast enough, and they, like the artist VanGogh, succumb to insanity.
Looking through my own words in my journal, I found frustration and fear and loneliness. When I write stories I write the opposite. It's as though my journal is real life, and my stories are the world I create to escape that life. Both are necessary to my mental health I'm certain. The funny thing is, my poems, for the the most part, are the opposite. The best ones are about pain. To write poems about happy things seems to take more effort for me. I wrote a poem for children about my dog once...but it was about when he was lost, and how helpless it made me feel. But hey, what child doesn't know how it feels to lose something they love? And what child doesn't know how it feels to be helpless in a situation?
The point of all this rambling is just to say that this is not just what I do. It's who I am. It's what I need to do to live. Just like eating, sleeping, breathing...I have to write. Whether or not I get published, or if anyone but me takes the time to read what I write doesn't matter. Heck, people were using VanGogh's paintings to cover up holes in the wall, and as dartboards. Still, he went on, painting his dreams and nightmares, and I go on..
... writing mine.

Back in time for a little fun...

No, I don't mean I got back in time, I mean I went back in time...so to speak. My 9 year old's class had "Gold Rush Day" in school. They sang songs from that time period, did some square dancing, learned about the miners' life and even panned for "gold". Granted, I could have gotten more gold out of the bottom of a Goldschlager bottle, but hey, she had fun. California History - gotta' love it.

In the off moments of my school/taxi service I spent a little time trying to figure out where to send the manuscript for my novel. I keep thinking it's ready to send, and then I think of something I want to change or add and sometimes I wonder if I'll ever get it out there. I'm also thinking more seriously about getting an agent. A friend of mine, who is an actor, says he loves having an agent because people tend to take him more seriously. And although you have to give the agent part of the take, I'm thinking it will be worth it in the long run considering all the research I have to do just to find a publisher/editor to even look at my work. It's a thought anyway.

But now, I have to take care of more important issues...4th grade homework, teen drama, how to get my son off of YouTube long enough to get some exercise...

Well...here goes.

The point of this blog is, for the moment, merely a way for me to keep a journal. I just want to document little snippets of my life from time to time. If anyone but me is reading this...you have way too much time on your hands. Really. Way. Seriously, if it wasn't my blog, I'd surely have no time to read it. That said, the benefit of having no real fans is that I can pretty much write whatever the heck I want. Any way that I want. So, don't go trying to correct the grammer or spelling, or leave comments that this blog sucks, because honestly, if you have the time to read it, you obviously have no life. (This does not apply to my fabulous friends or dear relatives of course...okay, maybe some of the relatives.)
So hear goes...my first official post. I feel so special. I'd give you all a big hug and kiss...but I have a really bad cold and trust me...you don't want my cooties.