2/2/10
I was hoping to have received more information yesterday, but my sources are still working diligently to secure contacts for me and it is both my duty and honor to wait upon them. After all, this is for Charley and today as much as I might wish to serve myself, I must be mindful that I also serve him who waits for release. Patience is a virtue I am well acquainted with when it comes to writing a story. A muse’s timing is not always in sync with my own and so I must forever wait at her coattails for her to impart whatever she wishes; knowing that fodder and wisdom alike are but one in the same to her and dispensed with the same expediency or lack there of. Today the sky has decided to cry and it bids me to stand at the edge of burgeoning puddles waiting… for what and for whom I am not certain just yet, but that is the beauty of intuition. It baits without reason and delivers without agenda. And that is the irony about writing a book or writing anything at all. Writers do not write. Rather we channel what is already floating amongst the cosmos. Plucking from the ether what is finally ripe and then with timid intellect and pointed pen splay it open for others to see. My muse does not always appear ready for work, with blue print in hand and dusty coveralls festooned with tools of my beloved trade. Some days she shows up with only rain coat and goulashes, wanting only to play in the rain. Pointing to the heavens and begging me to follow her lead, that I not miss the other things in life I will need to feed fledgling characters without tapping my reserves. Today could be one of those days where it is better to follow, than to lead. To listen to music, rather than to compose it. To read and not to write… to not speak, but listen to what quiet secrets the cosmos may wish to bestow.
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