Storms, certainly not tornadoes, help me write. It's the sound of the rain, the grumble of Mother Earth that pulls me from reality into my imagination. Perhaps this started when I was a child.
In my childhood I was absolutely terrified of storms. I would not leave my Dad's side. I remember shaking in my flip-flops praying the Giants would stop wrestling over my head. I even used my sacred wand (oak stick) to cast a spell on Mother Earth. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.
When I turned 7ish, during those moments of horrific fear, I wrote or played Barbies or Glamour Gals. Either way, I spent time creating a story. I often lost myself in those moments of story-weaving. Many times I forgot it was storming, minus that occasional blinding flash of light and earth shaking rumble that followed. This became ritual to me- if it stormed- I wrote or played. Either way, I created a world far from there, far from the storm in a mystic cave, or endangered jungle or perhaps a castle in Ireland where the faeries dared me to step into their circle.
Old habits are hard to break. It storms, I write. And I write the same as I did a two decades ago (clearing throat)- with a pad of paper and a pen (pens seemed more grownup than a pencil.) There is something about feeling a good ink pen flow across paper. It's a ballet of words at best, even if it's the Hillbilly Hop version...
May each of your WRITE THE STORM!!!
In my childhood I was absolutely terrified of storms. I would not leave my Dad's side. I remember shaking in my flip-flops praying the Giants would stop wrestling over my head. I even used my sacred wand (oak stick) to cast a spell on Mother Earth. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.
When I turned 7ish, during those moments of horrific fear, I wrote or played Barbies or Glamour Gals. Either way, I spent time creating a story. I often lost myself in those moments of story-weaving. Many times I forgot it was storming, minus that occasional blinding flash of light and earth shaking rumble that followed. This became ritual to me- if it stormed- I wrote or played. Either way, I created a world far from there, far from the storm in a mystic cave, or endangered jungle or perhaps a castle in Ireland where the faeries dared me to step into their circle.
Old habits are hard to break. It storms, I write. And I write the same as I did a two decades ago (clearing throat)- with a pad of paper and a pen (pens seemed more grownup than a pencil.) There is something about feeling a good ink pen flow across paper. It's a ballet of words at best, even if it's the Hillbilly Hop version...
May each of your WRITE THE STORM!!!
