Magick is what you make it

As we bandy about looking for the last-minute gift or preparing for the end of the world, I have just one word for all of us today.  Magick.  Be it a child’s eyes at the gifts, or the love to be lost and communication unspoken, Magick is everywhere around us and is as simple or complex as we need it to be at any given moment.  I wish for us all a moment of quiet magick, today and always.

In other news, It’s STORYTIME boys and girls….enjoy!

http://storytimetrysts.blogspot.com/2012/12/some-might-call-it-magic.html?zx=26a17b4ab3261569

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State of Mind

Where are we?  What are we doing?  What are we thinking?  Me, myself, and I are swimming with the mix of excitement, melancholy, insanity, gratitude, and a plethora of others unnamed today.  Why?  Because I’m alive.  I live.  I breathe.  I make strides and mistakes and stop to smell coffee and flowers.  I run headlong into things and end up with too much and topple the plate too…but at the end of it all, I live.

Recent thoughts are about thinking.  What do I think?  Why do I think what I think, and how did I come to think them?  A grand circle to be sure.  I am also thinking HOW?  How will I get it all done?  I have finished my Storytime Trysts flash pieces and they are edited and ready to go for the 19 th – 21st.  There is a pending commitment for weekly work on ST in January that I haven’t been able to bring myself to think on yet.  I am finishing up The Red Queen, the follow-up to Swingers, and working on Oracle, and the NaNo piece Racing the Rip-tide.  UGH!  I believe I’ve met myself at my pillow too oft of late.

I’m also thinking about gratitude.  Swingers continues to swell and has recently gone from 160,935 in November to Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #29,766 Paid in Kindle Store.  I have no words for the elation.  Gratitude is me.  I hope it is you for whatever it is that makes your day and brightens your smile, your heart, your step.

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The Maestro and the child

After a long journey through NaNo land, I am watching as others cram to finish, to push the final leg, and am reminded of a tale that was shared with me long, long ago.  I do not know the original author, nor am I certain I will tell it as well as it is from memory now, though I’m certain to have the original somewhere.  I hope that it instills the same motivation and powerful awareness of the power you hold within you.

A mother, frustrated with her young son for his apparent lax attitude toward his lessons and practice took him to the concert hall.  The Maestro was giving a concert and she hoped that he would take inspiration from seeing someone so accomplished.  As they walked down the aisle to their seats, she cautioned him to remember his manners, not fidget in his seat, and to be on his best behavior.  The crowd was all decked out in the evening finery, men in coat tails and women in gowns bedecked in jewels.  This was a momentous night.  Sitting uncomfortably, trying not to fidget, looking around at all of the adults and taking in the noise of the crowd his young eyes fixed on the stage and the immense black grand piano sitting at the center.  As his mother turned to converse with those around their seats, he was fascinated.  Fixated.  Drawn and compelled.  He just had to know.  Before anyone was the wiser as no one was watching him, he quietly slipped from his seat and followed the gravitational pull of the beautiful instrument that called him.  Making his way onto the stage he walked carefully, doing nothing to break the spell.  Sitting up on the bench, his feet could not touch the floor or the pedals, but the circle was complete when he laid his hands on the keys.  Being rather averse to practicing he knew nothing by heart, save Chopsticks, and so he began plucking out the simple tune.  The hall slowly stilled as the guests in the audience turned toward the stage, a pulsing shock as they discovered the boy, and then a barrage of noise as they exclaimed their outrage.
“Get that child off the stage.  How dare he touch The Maestro’s instrument.  WHO brought a disrespectful child here?”  And so on.
The Maestro backstage, heard the commotion, quickly ascertained what was happening, clicked his cuff links and walked briskly onto the stage amid the commotion, quieting the patrons gently with his hands.  As he reached the piano and the small boy sitting there he leaned over him and said,

“Don’t stop.  Keep going.  Whatever you do, don’t stop.”
The boy continued playing while The Maestro leaned over him and then sat beside him, improvising a counter melody to the simple Chopsticks.  Over an over that night they played, not the program as stated, but an improvisation on Chopsticks.  At the end of the evening The Maestro thanked the boy for his assistance and handed him off with a few quiet words to a stunned mother.

Now, I am not The Maestro, but I say to all of you who are remiss in your lessons and out of practice in your craft, or just a little behind, a bit frustrated with the journey ahead, still dreaming, or well on your way to a new success…

Don’t stop.  Keep going.  Whatever you do, don’t stop.  Keep dreaming.  Keep reaching.  Find the magic and share.

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Did you miss me?

Even though it’s only been a few short weeks, it feels like an eternity since I was here.  NaNoWriMo is verified and I’m hip deep in several other projects.  Racing the Rip-tide was a fun write and really still has so far to go with editing and fleshing it out.  I wrote, but I think I zombie wrote for so much of it makes little sense in places.  I have Flash Fiction for December for Storytime Trysts that I’m working on and ANYONE who wants to take a crack at Flash there are still several spots available.  Check out my facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/#!/AbyrneMostynWordEnthusiast) for the contact person to get your piece in.  The Red Queen, the sequel to Swingers is bearing down hard on my dreams and interrupting the writing on Oracle which still has so much work to be done.  All in all, NaNo was a bump in the writing process.

Detours seem to abound in my world of late, and characters seem to be vying for the foreground pushing and shoving to get there.  Ite and Margaret had a knock down drag out the other day, it was intense waiting to see which notebook I needed.  I cannot express the mental anguish at changing up mid-stride.  I always thought as an author that you decided, and sat down and wrote a book.  For me, lately anyway, I sit down to write, I might even sit down with a plan, and then somewhere in the implementation phase when I have the pen to page everything changes and I’m the scribe telling the story as someone else whispers it to me.  I am not the master moving the characters through their lives and deciding where they are going.  It is as if they say to me,

      “Silly Author…you are the vehicle to get our tale to the masses.  You are not god.  You are the being that can manipulate the pen.  Thrive in your purpose.” 

Grudgingly I wait for the words to come and hope I have the right notebook nearby when they spill forth. 
Tomorrow is Thursday, and THANKSGIVING…how apropos a day of thankfulness.  I hope everyone has more to be thankful for than they can enumerate.  If you find that you hit a lull however, my gift to you is SWINGERS absolutely free Thursday and Friday for those who want a reason to stay home.  😉

Brightest Blessings.

Abyrne

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Wednesday comes in the middle of the week

You’re singing it in your head now too, aren’t you?

Wednesday, what a quagmire of influence.  Not quite past the peak to enjoy the slide to the weekend, or the mad rush to finish before the tolling bell friday; and not far enough in to feel the accomplishment of unloading the burden of a new week.  Recent days have been rife with stress and unfathomable grief.  So much so that the joys unnumbered have not been given their fair accounting and no amount of Thursdays spent in gratitude will compensate the lack of acknowledgement.

In English please you say?  Today is my eldest daughter’s “weekaversary” with her first official boyfriend.  I cannot determine the nature of the relationship and if she is asking for trouble or has found it.  Being the protector and the disciplinarian while not creating an opportunity for the walls to be built is a fine line to walk.  I daresay that I have greyed exponentially in the last ten days.

Greying of course being relative as my youngest pointed out a grey in otherwise blonde brows just a scant week or two ago.  I wish I could recover that moment in time and laugh with her all over.  I think it might be the last laughter of hers I have heard.  I have learned in the interim that her world has folded in on itself and she is struggling in ways I never saw nor could I fathom.  Struggling to the point that ‘ending it all’ was a very real thought for her.  How does the world become so difficult for a thirteen year old that out is the best option?

In turn, my writing has taken a dramatic shift as Niagara Falls could not fill the basin faster than the words have come spilling out.  Gearing up for NaNoWriMo I have to pause and wonder if I will complete that journey when I cannot think to ‘Rip-tide’ with this work taking me on the journey instead of me taking the words.  Can both works come out before the November 30th deadline?  I don’t know, and a part of me doesn’t care.  My mission, my crusade, my singular focus is finding the joy that has been lost to my daughter and returning it to her.  The sun shines when she laughs and I’m sore tired of rain.

 

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Writing in the dark…

Am I the only one out there who went to bed, and then had to get back up and sit at the desk to write because the words just would not stop?  It was an odd phenomena.  Completely new.  Ultimately trivial…and thus my cuppa Joe has been refilled more often today than any other in recent history. 

Sure, I’ve had nights where the notepad by the pillow got a few scratches with ideas that were bouncing about.  I have never however, had a scene set on repeat in my head running end to end over and over again until I scratched the whole of it out on paper.  The mind on a roll is a curious thing.  I also sat debating how exactly I tell my mother that I’m never going to use the degree I so purposefully pursued and accumulated a land mass of debt to have, because when I find the right path to a writing career, I’m on it and never looking back. 

Sitting in the lone lamp I then remembered the electric bill was due, so I logged on to pay that.  Paying that brought the insurance renewal to the top of the stack and so I started reading that.  Good lords;a distraction for a simple three page scene took me on a cross-country journey. 

At the end of it all, I’m sitting here today wondering why I’m so tired, when getting the words to paper was all I needed to do.  I guess maybe I should have stopped there.  But then again, I’m not sure that I could have stopped the freight train without derailing the whole of everything.  Anyone else do the re-route and ramble?

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Why am I here?

For the second day in a row I’ve asked myself this question out loud.  Quite a telling situation to be sure.  The answers are not quick to come either.  I roll into the office and set up for the day, dive into whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing and somewhere in the accomplishment phase of said task, I find myself wondering why I’m here?  Not the visceral, what is my purpose question, more the specific; I hate my job, I end up frustrated and feeling something just shy of broken every day, so why do I keep plugging away at the 9 – 5?  Short answer?  I can’t afford not to work.  Long answer, I can’t afford not to work.

Writing has been a release and a form of guided meditation, but until that transitions into something more, I think I’m stuck.  So, how to make the transition?  How do I engage the curve and make that turn?  Is it up to me?  I think the answer is yes, and no.  I think that the ‘leg work’ is mine to do, but there is an element of uncontrolability too, and that makes it both exciting, and frightening.  In the end I can put the words on the page, but I also have to listen to the readers some to gauge how to write what they want to read.  As a virtual unknown that is a really small group of dedicated amazing people.  Are they a true cross-section of my potential audience?

How does this impact stories?  I think a little or a lot depending.  A well-known writer that I’ve followed for a while took quite a bit of heat not too long ago because after listening to fan outcry at the possibility of a character being killed off, they changed the story from where it was originally going and that threw the opposite end of the fan spectrum into arms.  The balance between where you the author are going and where the fans hope you go is sometimes daunting.  I consider myself beyond fortunate to have such a strong and true fan base already.  I am also fortunate that many/most of them are completely comfortable telling me that I’m doing it wrong.  ~laughing~  Yes, I do that too.

In the end, I guess this is not so much about ‘Why am I here?’ but more about how much longer do I have to stay?  I hope the time grows shorter.  I think I’m ready to get out.

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