377 days... Blog # time to stop counting

So you know how I said I was going to write a blog every day for a year and some days?  I did that for 100ish days.  Then I took an extended break when theater occupied the space of my brain from which words usually flow.  But then I said I was back on track and would figure out how to live up to that promise from August.

I also made a list.  An incomplete, but determined to flesh out to 40 items list.  Some of those items are checked off.  A number of numbers are still left blank.  And all the rest are hanging out there on the folded up piece of paper sitting on my desk under a pile of wires and a random Mardi Gras mix CD from 2006 and a napkin and a bill and bits of Barre Players history cluttered next to my computer.

That list is not going to happen.

I still have four – no three months and some to align myself back to that purpose.

I’m not going there.  The road I intended to take for year 39 has become a detour for the road I am setting on for who knows how many years to come.

I stopped writing this blog.  But, really.  I started writing.

Or rather, a new definition of writing.  The kind that motivates me to get up an hour earlier each day, make a pot of coffee, and sit at the dining room table in the waking hour of dawn to handwrite pages in a notebook.  The kind about which I find myself thinking randomly to provoke inspiration.  Like today I had time to kill before a WWC writein and decided to grab a coffee and spend a gift card at Barnes and Noble.  I bought a new journal with a Celtic knot symbol (I start my morning writing with 15-20 minutes of emotional unclogging in a journal) and a very thick book written by Thomas Kenneally (of Schindler’s List and Our Country’s Good fame) about Irish immigration.  Because I thought the 1000plus pages might inspire a story for book three.  Because yes, there is already a book two planned (and some brief pages written).  Book three is just as necessary.  Because this is the kind of writing that is haphazard enough that I will indulge an impulse buy of a world history book for inspiration but strategic enough to map out timing and the weaving of stories together from book one.

But book one is not necessarily book one.

Just the first one I’m writing and piecing together to reveal bits of the epic.  Or epoch. 

Because this thing is timey wimey and all that.

I want to tell you all of it right now, dear Reader.  But it is nearing midnight.  And in spite of the tease to stay asleep, I do crave that early am hour of writing new material.  

It’s a good addiction.

It’s a good way to spend the months leading up to 40 and Ireland.

Because that last number on the list is still true.