Finding Inspiration in the Waiting Period of Writing

Otherkin has been through the editing process and it wasn’t as brutal as I’d feared. It’s also passed muster with two beta readers. It’s now waiting and gestating. I need one more read-through after all the changes and then will start the publishing process.

In the meantime, I’m in that fallow period between stories, waiting for one to come through. This can sometimes be a stressful thing as fears surface. Will I get another story? Oh my god, what if I never write again?!? In other ways, it can be like a vacation, where you can let go of all the word – work and just let your mind wander.

One thing I’m doing is reading The Book of Alchemy: A Creative Practice for an Inspired Life by Suleika Jaouad, and what a wonderful way to keep writing flowing in between projects.

Waiting to catch the new story

So…I was enjoying the rain and thunder and all the beautiful fall colors yesterday, and I came up with a theory and decided to do some research.

The theory is, that a person’s preference for silver or gold is tied to their favorite season. It make sense, right? For example, fall and winter are my favorites. As is silver. The color is like rain and snow and gray days. That also kind of ties into my favorite gemstone, which is garnet.

Shaggy Mane fall mushrooms

For research, I did a broad study by asking a sister, and of course, she blew my theory out of the water. I thought for sure summer would be her favorite, because she likes gold. But no, it’s winter. In some ways her choice of season makes sense because she hates bugs and extreme heat. But how can she like gold when she doesn’t list the yellows and golds of summer as her favorite season?

Maybe she’s just an anomaly.

Or maybe it’s my theory.

Still waiting

Those Whispers

There’s a young woman circling me. I can catch brief glimpses of her, as if shadows moving behind trees. Occasionally I can hear her whispered voice, but it may be the wind.

I’ve seen her walking above the sea alone, face lifted to the salt air. I know she feels cleansed, but I also see how gaunt she is. She’s simply escaped the mountains, but not whatever it is that haunts her.

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There’s an old woman waiting for her. A grandmother, or maybe great-grandmother, in her end days. Some say she’s lost her mind, but what some see as insanity others see as vision, finally clear.

It’s like writing. This young woman circling me, creeping up on me, whispering to me, isn’t real. Or at least not yet. But she wants me to tell her story because she can’t. And there’s some mystery there, on the wild edges of the North Sea, where she now walks.

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Some of you nod, recognizing the writing process, understanding that voice in the place where stories begin.

Others, who don’t understand the writing process, might hear this and think it strange, or wonder about someone who says they hear voices in their head.

But this…this is how a story begins.

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She’s too shy yet. She doesn’t trust me fully yet. She’s not ready for the story to come to me yet.

But she’s there, working her courage up to come fully forward, to step through the door.

And this…this is how her story begins.

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