There are a few tunes that cause a deep melancholy to well up inside.  I’m not talking about sadness, although I think it’s related.  And melancholy isn’t quite the right word.  That overwhelming tide when I hear certain songs includes awe, reverence, a sense of connection to place, something beyond what some would label holy. Spiritual yes, religious, no.  I sense a recognition of something, that I’m at the same time unsure of.

Sometimes, if these songs catch me unaware, I break into sobs.  Sometimes the joy stops me in my tracks.  Sometimes all I can do is close my eyes and breathe.

But always, afterwards, I realize these emotions, whatever they are, comprise what I strive for in writing.  Can you imagine placing down words that, when read, give birth to these same reactions in the reader?  Oh, to be a writer like that.    That is a goal that makes the struggles to write worthwhile.  And occasionally I need to listen to these songs to remind me what I struggle for.

The songs that do this for me? Sometimes it’s the words, sometimes it’s an ageless melody, sometimes it’s a connection to history.  But for me, the list includes the traditional versions of ‘Scarborough Fair’ and ‘Greensleeves’, ‘The Sound of Taransay’, the voice of Lisa Gerard or Loreena Mckennit, songs by Ulali, Anonymous Four, and I’ll stop there before the post becomes nothing but a list of songs.  Oh, wait, there’s also songs like ‘One Tin Soldier’, ‘Where Have all the Flowers Gone’, and ‘Both Sides Now’, but I think those are because of the memories attached to the oldies.

And now I’m curious.  Does music impact your writing?  If so, what music stirs your soul to catch words?

Oops.  One more that I’m listening to right now: ‘The Mist Covered Mountains’.

My husband flew out of state for work and will be gone a month.  Last night we stayed at a nice hotel near the airport and ate out, which is a rarity for us.  We didn’t recognize half of the things so artfully displayed on our plates.  And when my husband left in the dark wee hours this morning, I stayed in the hotel until checkout time.  (After all, we paid a lot for those hours!)  I took advantage of the quiet, alone-ness, and lack of distraction, to work on writing.

In the past I have been a very organic writer.  The idea flows in, usually following a ‘what if’ question, and off I go, along for the ride the characters take me on.  There’s a reason I called this blog the story river, and it’s not because I outline in detail.  I usually know the very ending before I know the story, as if I picture this final dramatic moment, and then backtrack to figure out how to get there.  Admittedly I feel guilty that I don’t outline, but when I try to, the story dies, as if the story feels that since it’s been told in outline form it doesn’t need me anymore.

Back at the hotel this morning though, I sat very fearfully in front of the computer and only managed two short paragraphs.  I can feel the arcs of this story, like soft wool I need to spin into threads.  I can see how I want it to be.  In the past, right now, I’d be deep in that world, writing furiously.  Instead I’m approaching the words way too tentatively.

The oncologist told me the creative side of me wasn’t killed in radiation, and I believe him because I do see writing coming back, and this blog has helped tremendously with that.  However, it’s one thing to rather timidly approach a blog of a few paragraphs, and another to take on a novel.  I am horribly afraid that if I start I will find the writer has not been resurrected after all.  I am horribly afraid that if I don’t start, something that is extremely important to me might never come back.

I don’t know where this particular story river is going to take me, but I’m beginning to think that I’m thinking too much.  It might be time to open up my arms and tell the characters, ‘possess me, whisper your story to me’ and just pick up the damn pen.