Sleep was elusive. My brain was working double time and I couldn't get comfortable last night even though my body was tired.
The baby decided she didn't want to go to bed until about 1am, Eric was doing his best to drive me crazy--and it seemed all of this happened because the universe knew I was dying to devour On Writing by Stephen King.
Despite the numerous interruptions of cooking dinner, changing poopy diapers, keeping a baby from eating her barrettes, trying not to ignore my boyfriend while he was talking to me, I managed to gobble up 129 glorious pages. I wanted to stay up all night and finish the book, but I knew I had to get up early to get the baby to her nana's and myself off to work.
My headache came back the way it always does when the Excedrin wears off (Eric keeps telling me that I need to go to the doctor's, but he knows I won't. It took me being unable to swallow and having a fever of 102ยบ to finally go to the ER when I had strep a week and a half ago).
I'm laying back in bed, trying to find a comfortable position while Mr. King's words are rolling through my head. I'm having epiphany after epiphany, I'm playing his words over and over in my head, I'm mentally revising whole scenes and my head hurts so bad from these migraines that I don't get to sleep until around three.
But I'm thrilled, I'm happy, I'm excited. I kept saying out loud, "I'm so in love with this man right now."--meaning Mr. King of course. And I am...in the fickle way that I fall in love with things that amaze and inspire me. I'm always falling in love with someone or something. I've since stopped trying to reign that thing in. That's the whole reason why I'm even a writer. I need to fall in love with an idea to the point where I have to get it out of me--or it'll fester and it'll make me unhappy because I'm not doing anything with this love.
I finished the whole section about his growing up and meeting Tabitha and falling in love with her. Hell, how can you not fall in love with a person who laughs loudly and freely, wears skirts that are too short and writes amazing poems like 'A Gradual Canticle for Augustine'. I really want to sit down and hang out with her and tell vulgar jokes.
So anyhow, I'm laying there in my messy bed, toys strewn all over the floor, clothes falling out of the tiny closet--and for once I'm not feeling guilty that my apartment is a mess (I'm giving it a good cleaning on Friday). I'm blissfully unaware of everything but words and meaning.
Before the munchkin went to sleep, I was reading on the couch and she was playing quietly with a pen, trying to put the top back on (kept her quiet for like 30 minutes, seriously. The girl has tons of toys and bright things that make noises and light up...but she's thrilled with this pen...much like her eclectic mama) and I'm watching her play with this pen.
And I get this idea 'see how a child sees'. I was thinking about adjectives and adverbs and description and not being caught up with trying to 'sound' like a writer. So I think, when Israel looks at this pen, what does she see? If she could talk, how would she describe it?
How would she describe an old car rumbling down the street?
If Izzy could tell me, she'd say;
"Box on wheels making loud sounds that scare me. It smells funny and the color isn't bright. I'm looking at it because it's loud."
And that's what she does. Loud things always get her attention and she'll follow it with her eyes, committing it to memory. She remembers that the bus is loud and big and makes a 'shhhhh' sound when the door opens and so every big vehicle she sees, she calls 'buh'. She'll point to a car and go 'buh?'
I sit on the floor with her, playing with the things that fascinate her like aluminum foil or Vaseline or an empty cell phone box and I try to picture how she pictures it. It's incredibly dorky sounding, but it's fun.
God, this blog is a rambling mess and I am totally aware of it. But man, I don't care how I sound right now. I don't care if I don't sound professional or if my sentences are running on. I'll worry about that when I'm writing the 'Thing'...I probably won't even worry about then. I'm just so incredibly, stupidly HAPPY. I'm happy because I found this book. I'm happy because there is a method to my madness because King says so. I'm happy that I actually found advice that seems to have been written specifically for me.
I guess everyone says shit like that. Well I'm saying shit like that. I am perfectly content in my own delusion that King knew that I was going to be born and that he had written this specifically for Alicia Marie Evans to find 12 years after he wrote it and 9 years after it was published. He did! Honest.
sweet, I spelled 'eclectic' right.
And I get this idea 'see how a child sees'. I was thinking about adjectives and adverbs and description and not being caught up with trying to 'sound' like a writer. So I think, when Israel looks at this pen, what does she see? If she could talk, how would she describe it?
How would she describe an old car rumbling down the street?
If Izzy could tell me, she'd say;
"Box on wheels making loud sounds that scare me. It smells funny and the color isn't bright. I'm looking at it because it's loud."
And that's what she does. Loud things always get her attention and she'll follow it with her eyes, committing it to memory. She remembers that the bus is loud and big and makes a 'shhhhh' sound when the door opens and so every big vehicle she sees, she calls 'buh'. She'll point to a car and go 'buh?'
I sit on the floor with her, playing with the things that fascinate her like aluminum foil or Vaseline or an empty cell phone box and I try to picture how she pictures it. It's incredibly dorky sounding, but it's fun.
God, this blog is a rambling mess and I am totally aware of it. But man, I don't care how I sound right now. I don't care if I don't sound professional or if my sentences are running on. I'll worry about that when I'm writing the 'Thing'...I probably won't even worry about then. I'm just so incredibly, stupidly HAPPY. I'm happy because I found this book. I'm happy because there is a method to my madness because King says so. I'm happy that I actually found advice that seems to have been written specifically for me.
I guess everyone says shit like that. Well I'm saying shit like that. I am perfectly content in my own delusion that King knew that I was going to be born and that he had written this specifically for Alicia Marie Evans to find 12 years after he wrote it and 9 years after it was published. He did! Honest.
sweet, I spelled 'eclectic' right.
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