Why So Silent, Good Monsieurs?

As the words of Phantom of the Opera beautifully state, I wanted to explain the lack of posts. Well, greater than usual lack of posts. Especially since I started off this year saying that I would post something every week, which I must admit I have not done very well.

Here goes . . .

I've let go of my dream of writing a book.

Phew. There, I've said it aloud. Well, cyber-ally (if that's a word) anyway.

Now I should explain the connection to less posts and the releasing of my dream since I realize that the connection may not be as obvious as it is to myself. About two months ago, I was discussing with my counselor what I would do with myself if I could do anything at all. Almost immediately I answered that I would write a book. She asked why and it took me a while to come up with an answer. When I finally did, which took some further questioning and thinking, I realized that I wanted to write one to prove that I could. This was a revelation to me and I thought a very poor reason to want to accomplish something. This is not to say that wanting to do something to prove that you can is always a bad reason, but as a reason to do something that you profess to love for its own sake, it's a bad reason. So I decided that writing a book was something that I needed to let go of and, after saying aloud that I let go of this particular dream, I started crying. When my counselor asked me why, the first things that came to me were sadness, which is natural after a loss, and relief, which it took longer for me to understand. After some assigned reflection, I realized that I had made the completion of a book my standard of my writing ability. In other words, if I couldn't write a book, I wasn't a good writer in my own mind. After years of people saying how much they liked my works and that I should write a book one day, I had taken it too much to heart. I had made this someday-book an idol and chain in my soul, and upon its release, my heart felt relief.

Hopefully now, the whole lack of posts/writing a book dream correlation makes a little more sense.

Since then, I haven't really written much at all. Some of my more discerning readers may see the connection to my previous post and the dream release. That was written a few weeks later, if memory serves well, which it only does on occasion. It's been funny because I thought I would miss it much more than I actually do. Right after this time, I began painting a lot more (which is a hobby I took up almost a year ago now, sheesh). Only recently have I again felt the muse's pull to write again. Which I may or may not do, though I'm thinking I may.

All this to say, that is why I haven't been posting as much and that I sincerely apologize to anyone who has been thinking I've fallen off the face of the earth or anything of that sort. I haven't but I have been trying to explore some new horizons. So there may yet be more postings of stories and musings in the future but I'm not going to be so concerned about making definitely sure they come about.

Writing Challenge - Day 6

He looked down at his hands; they were shaking. He tried to get them to stop but they refused to obey. As he sat there, television rolling in front of him, he could feel his heart mimicking his hands. His breaths grew short and quick, as if his lungs couldn't bear to be full for very long.

"It can't be," he thought. "It can't be."

His hands still shaking, he took the phone in both hands for fear he'd let it drop. Slowly, he typed the numbers and put the phone to his ear. The dial tone rang once.

"Oh good, it's working."

Second dial tone.

Third dial tone.

"Maybe his phone's on vibrate and that's why he's not picking up. That's got to be it."

Fourth dial tone.

"Come on, Kurt. Come on."

Fifth dial tone.

"Kurt!"

"Hello?" answered a strange male voice.

His hands had steadied and pulse slowed when the phone had been answered but renewed their activity at the non-Kurt voice.

"Who are you? Where's Kurt?" he demanded with more vehemence than perhaps the recipient deserved.

"Calm down, sir," said the strange voice. "Who am I speaking to?"

"Cameron, Cameron Sturgeon."

"What is your relation to ... Kurt?"

"I'm his brother. Now put him on."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sturgeon, but that won't be possible."

"No ... no ... it has to be possible. You have his phone so he has to be there. Give him the phone!"

"Mr. Sturgeon, please. I'm sorry to have to tell you this over the phone but ... your brother Kurt is dead."

P.S. So the weekend threw me off my regular routine (well, sort of routine) but hopefully I'll be able to keep up my streak after this.

My Lord, He Wanders Where He Wills, Alone - A Sonnet

For Renaissance British Lit, my professor had us try to write a traditional sonnet. This is my attempt. I don't think it turned out too horribly, though, the end needs some work I think. Otherwise, I'm pretty happy with it.

My Lord, He Wanders Where He Wills, Alone
My lord, he wanders where he wills, alone,
With little thought to what his love may say.
By night, the stars call, “Come, we’ll show the way.”
He heeds their siren cries; his soul is flown
To heights that only gods can navigate
And runs as free as goats upon the mount.
Enraptured like Narcissus at the fount,
My lord longs to resume adventures late.
So I, his love, am left abandonéd
By his pursuit of planetary odes.
I have no skill that can compare, which bodes
Great ill, for as I lay upon my bed,
I languish like the nymph called Echo who
For love could nothing but repeat to woo.