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August 9, 2006
MORNING MUSINGS—My day begins in darkness. I usually sleep
but 4 hours a night. I awake with the dregs of dream dripping from my
mind like cobwebs. In the untangling of these symbolic journeys, I
usually discover the heart of my workday, which tasks are more urgent,
which more intriguing, which the most rewarding. This is a good time for
me because the world is still asleep and I am on the march.
But I do not plunge into work. That might be drudgery. Oh, no, the
morning is for musing. I walk through the darkness to my office,
followed by one or two or three kitties, my dog, Bucky. I turn on the
lights, the computer, and write emails that have worked up in my mind
overnight. Then, I read mail, deleting the spam, print out the ones that
my wife Charlotte might find interesting. I open Word and bring up the
chapter or story I want to work on first. What I need to write is always
there, waiting, and it’s not going to go away. Rather, like a
professional athlete, I’m going to play the game before I go on the
court, the course, or the field. One part of my mind seems always to be
weaving stories, painting scenes, drawing energy from the universe.
I may read a manuscript or a few pages of a book. I’ll sit on my futon,
turn on the halogen lamp, put on special glasses, hold a magnifier to
the page and struggle to decipher the letters that form the words. My
eyes last only a while. So, I may listen to a book I have downloaded
from Audible.com.
I’ll turn out the lights for this. Most of the time, one of the cats has
come in and either sits by my side, or lolls atop the futon to doze and
watch me. Shy Ann is the main one. She will sometimes put a paw on my
shoulder for reassurance.
One of the reasons I do not go to work right after I wake up is because
I know that once I start to write, time will drop away, lose all
reference for me. I will go into that world where there is no time
except the time of the book. Gone, too, will be all the real sounds of
the actual world, all sensations germane to my normal existence. I will
be immersed in a created world of words and images, magic and myth.
Around 1:30 a.m. or so, I will return to the house, pour a half cup of
coffee and sit out on my deck. I will have set the food out for the cats
and the three raccoons who visit every morning. I will sit on my deck
looking out at the dark woods and up into the trees and sky. There is
the incessant sizzle of insects, the soft cellos of crickets sounding in
my ears. Sometimes, I will hear the distant moan of a train whistle, the
bark of a dog, the melodic ribbons of coyote voices singing up and down
the harmonic scale.
There is a deep inner peace at such moments, and my mind paints scenes,
runs scraps of dialogue, turns phrases over and over, sets moods and
completes or begins chapters. The composing continues as I drink my
coffee and offer thanks to the Great Spirit for the abundance in my life
and accept the rewards that continue to flow to me, powered by that
mysterious force in the universe. These parts of my musings are
important because I am practicing the Law of Attraction, hooking up to
the energy that I cannot see, but always feel when I look up into the
night sky.
The cats, having fed, loll on the deck around my chair, looking like a
pride of miniature lions. Some will climb up on the rails and take up
sentry positions. Smokey, the big gray Tom, will cry and go to the door.
I’ll go inside and pour him some milk in a Styrofoam bowl, set it out
for him. He will share with the Roamer, little Roamey, the runt of Mama
Kat’s litter. My dog Bucky chases the raccoons without ever catching
them, and then he will lie down on the deck, alert for any alien
intrusions. But, he misses the armadillo that lumbers across the
greensward. Poor eyesight, like his master. He’s a combination Rat and
Jack Russell Terrier. In other words, he’s made of rubber and elastic
bands.
I’ll have one more coffee out on the deck around 4:00 a.m. By then I
have probably started work on a chapter or begun a short story, or, as
happened this morning, begin writing in the journal or the monthly
blog. The
scene or story is still working its way through my mind, even so, and
the second half cup of coffee is better than the first. The moon has set
by then and my yard is lit by a security lamp high atop a pole attached
to my outside office, which Bucky knows as “the little house.” Oh yes,
the cats and Bucky recognize certain phrases in our language, are
sensitive to tone of voice, inflection. If I raise my voice in
irritation or anger, Roamey will meow at me to stop. I recognize
inflections and meaning in their language, too, and each cat has its own
distinctive meow, and each meow means something. Some of the cat phrases
I recognize are “I want to be petted,” “I want to play,” “I want to go
outside,” “I’m hungry,” “There’s a raccoon stealing my food.”
So, this is how I start my day, how I unlock the secrets of the story,
feel the universe open to me like a generous flower, spraying me with
perfume. It’s a good way to start the day, and if I end it on the deck,
as I sometimes do, the katydids will join the chorus of crickets and the
squirrels will rag at the cats like washerwomen on tenement balconies
scolding their children playing stickball in the street. Everything, in
other words, is perfect.
Writers who want to learn the art of the short story are signing up for
my Story A
Month on a pretty regular basis. My subscription list is slowly
growing. Bruce Holland Rogers told me that’s the way his list grew for
his short shorts, and then, when a newspaper in Canada published an
interview with him, his list went from 7 subscribers to 700 in a short
while. He now charges $10.00 a year for 3 short shorts a month. I charge
$6.00 a year for one story a month, which is longer in length than all 3
of his.
And, I continue to critique and mentor writers—all this from my
www.help4writers.com website. I enjoy working with writers and enjoy
it even more when I can help them find an agent, a publisher, an editor,
and watch as their careers build.
There is a possibility that I will be conducting a writing retreat on
Lake Bob Sandlin. This would be at Shiloh Camp, which has 10 cabins.
We’d learn to write together on a weekend, in a beautiful setting. I’ll
keep you posted on this project.
I’ll be in Branson on the 18th and 19th, first signing books at The
Ozarks Mountaineer Bookstore in the Engler Block on 76 Country Music
Boulevard, then supper at the Lone Star, and Ozarks Writers League
meeting on Saturday. Terry Burns is one of the speakers, as is Dusty
Richards. OWL meets four times a year at College of the Ozarks.
This month’s
blog is a brief reflection on the poet, Charles Bukowski, and I’ll
probably talk some about my late friend, Frank Herbert, author of Dune,
in next month’s blog. I learned a lot from both men.
And, I continued to learn from good friends and new acquaintances.
My last thought for today: read and write. These tasks will serve you
well.
Jory Sherman
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