I've been somewhat reticent accented by a slice of distracted when it comes to writing about the ladies lately. Real life has provided an interesting balance of calm and static lately, which has driven me past the YOU MUST BLOG WITH FREQUENCY mission.
But then I got an email today, in reference to my previous Feast of Funerals entry.
"Mary - I loved that resolution so much. So artful, so much like people do it, so alive! There wasn't anything else I needed to know and I was right there in it! Sooooo GREAT!!!!"
The key to writing, for me, is releasing the image of an external editor. It's never beneficial to the process when you're writing what you write based on who you think might read what you're writing.
It's very freeing as a writer to give that external editor their walking papers.
It's not like this summer fiction I'm writing is High Art. But feedback like I received today does fan the fire just a bit.
As for me, life has not been without its static. Connor's going to college tomorrow; Logan's dancing every night starting next week. The nest is virtually empty.
I'm breaking ties with several things at once, reshaping the familiar. Change isn't a bad thing. It's just life. Chock full of opportunities to adapt.
I'm testing the theory of adaptation, trying to do it with a touch of grace, a bit less static.
"I'm nominating you for an Oscar, Maisie," Stella was impressed by the way Maisie had feigned some sort of breathing issue to disentangle them from almost being seen for the crashers they were.
"Well, thank you," Maisie said with a bit of puffery. "I'd like to also thank the Academy, God, my loving children...."
"That's enough." The window was closed when it came to gratuitous flattery. They had ground to cover. They'd spent far too long in Bozeman. They'd left a traceable trail. Maisie had a Portland connection. They'd opened up a few old, creaky doors from the past. They'd both fallen very willingly, each in their own way, into the Open Arms.
Both Maisie and Stella were mourning silently for different reasons as the Dart headed onto I-90 toward Missoula.
Sometimes the past is a bitter pill to swallow whole.
Especially when it's shoved down your throat when you least expect it.
Maisie's fond memories of time spent with Charlie seemed to take a back seat to Stella's much more conspicuous connection to Arthur, but both women spent time as they drove recollecting moments, like miles.
Would that they were each the type to share their feelings. Maisie and Stella didn't come from the "tell me how you feel" generation.
So their silence was punctuated by Maisie's attempts at tuning into any radio station. She wanted to hear some "oldies". Those songs, in her mind, weren't old at all.
All she could find was static.