Reflection.

“Quit staring.”

His hand hovered over her ankle, heat traveling to her knee and through her elbows, then returned to its station on the gear shift. The ever vigilant soldier. Twelve mile markers passed before he cleared his throat. She met his shaded gaze in the rearview mirror, watching his eyebrows jiggle in glee.

“You know,” he grinned wickedly. “If you lumber around with a swollen belly, we wouldn’t have nearly as good a time.”

Her face twitched into a fleeting smile and let her heavy lids drop, free hand secured lightly over her middle. “Sorry to break it to you, but it’s already swollen from all the drive thru burger stops.”

His hand covered hers just long enough to allow his heat to transfer – then back to the gear shift. She drifted to sleep, allowing the roaring winds to drown out her dreams.

The One Where I Remember

So. I have a new project.

Again.

Shelving another project.

Again.

I believe I’ve been project hoping until something feels… right. At first, it felt like a cop-out: I wasn’t dedicated, structured, or disciplined enough to complete the existing manuscript. Those are large words to swallow… because they all boil down to “I think I’m not good enough.”

2011 has been a year of discovery for me, and the veneer is slowly chipping away. I’m proud to say I am good enough. I have stories. Ideas. Scribbles. Scraps of phrases. Mental pictures. Things well enough to make my toes occasionally curl in joy because I wrote that – not someone else.

I even found the cover art of my future book. Who cares if it’s two or ten years away?

The block revolved around finding the right story; the one that makes my fingers itch and my legs twitch and my brain get fuzzy and hazy. Not to jinx anything, but I think I’ve found it.

It’s been invigorating. More than any other project. Maybe because it’s so personal. Maybe it’s because I finally feel well enough in my writer brain to accept this draft needs words on a page so I can rearrange them the way I picture them.

A healthy mental space. I dare say it is more important than the best atmosphere, writing utensils, or schedule.

Revisited.

It all started with a picnic.

A stringy basket, some bruised apples and a cheap bottle of gas station wine. They clinked plastic glasses in the setting sun and piled atop one another as the sky lit on fire. He played with her hair. She memorized the path of freckles on his wrist. They made plans dipped in sugary promises, cupped in their private retreat.

Each melted on her tongue, as real as the next: watermelon, cranapple, grape. A picket fence, a hunting dog, heaps of presents piled beneath a bedecked tree.

Their fingers raked through the dirt and leaves, listing destinations and milestones. Birthdays, anniversaries, graduations. Her heart wanted to burst from love and happiness, feeling both heavy and weightless; terror and freedom. They would carve a path from the shadows, dance among the stars, stomp the coarse mouths of those who stopped them.