Where is my head?

Well, I made a promise to myself a few days ago. It wasn't exactly a New Year's resolution; it was more in the nature of a, "Hey, if I want to keep that, I'd better do something with it" resolution.

I promised myself I would spend the first and third Saturday of every month doing some creative writing. It probably won't usually end up on my blog, but this morning was spent trying to simplify my creative project idea and my afternoon was spent at the temple. I've been wrapped up in a few other things - reading Sunday school lessons as though it's a habit to read them ahead of time (It's not. I'd like it to be, but it's not. Yet.), and watching a movie as though it's not a habit (It is. I'd like it not to be, but it is. For now).

So, I'm blogging for the sake of keeping a promise I made to myself. Free writing means just that... Write freely what comes to mind. No editing means there may be several starts... This is the grunt work of a writer... I think.

Here goes!

There wasn't really anything unusual about Timmy. He looked like every other eight-year old kid, smelled like every other eight-year old kid, and played like every other eight-year old kid. He hated to eat his vegetables and fought his parents at bedtime. He hated bath time too, or rather, he hated the bathing part of bath time. He was a perfectly normal kid.

Most of the time.

I'm not sure what was so unusual about Timmy, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't a super-duper secret spy. That's lame. I think he might have been an alien, but I'm not sure what to do with that idea - send him out at night to fight interstellar wars? Sounds too much like Ender's Game for my tastes.

Maybe what's so amazing about Timmy is that he spends part of every day as a bumble bee. I could write all about what happens to Timmy the bumble bee. He turns into a bee right after school and turns back into a boy when he gets home, and it somehow takes the same amount of time for him to fly and have crazy adventures as it would for him to walk.

Hm.

If that idea is story-worthy, it'll have to prove itself another day. It's not sparking my interest, so I doubt it'll do much for yours.

I do like playing with old folk and fairy tales, especially some of the more obscure ones in my collection. Poetry also - I used to be pretty good at poetry, but not since I started teaching. Maybe I should try that. It's more of a mood than a form of writing lately, and I might be able to find that rhythm I need to be a poet tonight.

It swirls through the still spaces

Disrupting order,

Upsetting discipline,

Menacing meaning.

It cannot be stopped

With any effort yet made

By a woman so changed

That her thoughts,

Once so clear and familiar,

Are like strangers to her.

As she sits,

Trying to contemplate

Who she is,

What she is,

Where she is going,

It swirls everywhere

As though it will never stop

And all she wants -

All she wants -

Is the concentration she enjoyed

Once upon a time

Before the chaos came;

The thing that never leaves

That never rests,

That never lets her mind rest

Because this thing

Is not hers.

OK, that was better. I miss that. It's far from good, but vague enough in wording and close enough to my heart that I am satisfied.

And I think I'm done for this week. I'm tired; I write better in my journal before bed, or in the mornings before - OK, well, I used to write better in the mornings before A'Cappella, or waiting for the campus shuttle, or waiting for biology to start. I guess I don't do much waiting these days. Maybe I should take a community ed creative writing class, if they're offered. Just time to - Write.