New Book

New Book
The House On Sunflower Road

A Writer's Prayer

As writers, we put ourselves out there for all to see, and the only dressing we finally get is in the comments coming our way; comments that layer our nakedness piece by piece until we are dressed. And when we are fully dressed we do the process all over again. For what worth is a work if no one touches it with their eyes, if no mind falls into the story, and in the leaving no weight of connection propels a response? Elizabeth
March 2, 2010

Elizabeth

Elizabeth
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The 'walks' of my mind!

Many things walk through my mind; it changes with the choice of time. For instance, during the day, I tend to write with a conscious eye, with a temperance toward word choices, almost as if I've an invisible watcher editing my thoughts before they find print; now, night time offers a different stage for my writing, I feel the mellowing of my words, my fingers fly across the keyboard with the courage of a Delilah, and thoughts sing a purer truth as the cover of darkness cheers me on. It seems most problems find an answer with only the light of the monitor in front of me. The darkness of the room lets my imagination have a free hand, no censoring of ideas, or judgment sitting on my shoulder.

The 'Memory Chair' -

"This...sitting around the fire," Wa`si said, "reminds me of my father and his friends. They would sit around the campfire gathering up its energy and before long there would be sharing time. The one designated to talk held the 'memory chair' until his story ended." He paused, as though his story mimicked the moment as the fire's strength entered into him, giving his words newly found power. "When I reached manhood, at sixteen, I was allowed to sit with the group. It was from these stories passed around from the one in the 'memory chair' that I learned the meaning of honor, and the importance of everything relative to what's around us. Best of all, I was taught that a strong man can show meekness without being weak...and shed tears without feeling shame....

Cherokee Proverb

Don't let yesterday use up too much of today!

Thursday, January 14, 2010

A New Year/ A New Day

Hello New Day/New Year

January 12, 2010 by etelizabeth

‘ Tis the 12th day of January…the time nearing mid-month of a new year; my tree is still up, and a few packages, sitting around the edge of the plaid, red, tree skirt, await to find their proper place in drawers, or on shelves. Candy fills some containers, and chocolate coated pretzel sticks shine from one opaque round plastic jar. The tree lights brave the whispers of ‘overly spent time’ amidst a room that has only this one show of a past holiday gear. No matter, they help to foster cheer in my brain that needs the dancing lights on the ceiling; a mound of joy that waits in the corner by the window to pop with color when I turn the switch.

For the last couple of days, I am into new work, my mind like a camera as I write the scene; this time of living in my story delights me to no end. I lose hours fast…like ice cubes melting in boiling water. All thoughts fall away of self, time, and place; I’ve slipped inside my imagination’s location. Thanks to the powers that be for giving me this lovely game to play, this ability of shape-shifting that strokes my soul time, and time again
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2 comments:

  1. Jerry Pat BoltonJanuary 15, 2010 at 3:07 AM

    Taking down the Christmas tree is sometimes like losing a loved one, especially if the past holiday was a good one.

    I can relate one hundred percent, Elizabeth, with the gratitude you offered for being able to delve into your own make believe world, although to the writer it is about as real as it gets. Snippets from our own lives somehow tend to make it into the worlds and characters we create, plus out and out fabrication. when it is all said and done our words are our legacy and that it as it should be.

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  2. ElizabethJanuary 20, 2010 at 11:31 AM

    Thanks Jerry, for your post. Sorry I am so late in getting back to you. I've begun a sequel to my book, The Long Night Moon, and as you know, the writing ogre is a selfish professor, eating up our time like a ravenous bear awake from hibernation. I enjoy your notes and promise to be more attentive. By the way, I've temporarily titled my new work, Beneath the Tall Trees.

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