June 19, 2013 by Angel Pricer
Two brave souls make their way to the beach, one more willing than the other, a caravan of kids in tow. Because of their love of family, adventure and each other, I find myself with several days to do what’s been impossible since school let out.
The plan is simple, though even as I write the word I have to laugh a little. Perhaps desire would be a better substitution, as plans change even in their execution and the urge to stick to one no longer rules my world. I’m going to write like a Mother#^@%*&, eager to develop the ideas I’ve been tucking away on note cards between preparing meals and wiping butts.
The exhilaration I feel at the prospect of four full days of active participation in the tender beginnings of a book is tempered just a bit by the fear of slipping into old, impeding patterns. But that’s OK, because I’ve got a place to begin, which is far more than I’ve ventured out with before. All those nebulous starts finally found their fertile footing.
I’m also working alongside a professional. My library copy of Ron Carlson Writes a Story sits at my dining room table reminding me, above all else, to get physical with the details and let the tale unfold. Like a kid about to set foot on the bus to summer camp for the first time, there’s a certain sense of school-girl giddiness at the prospect of an opening scene, some vague direction, and a sense of wonder over how it will all unfold. I never had to wait for a fully formed plan. All I needed was a place to begin.
image courtesy of Danilo Rizzuti at freedigitalphotos.net