If You're a Writer...

I'm taking a class about powerful prayer that involves creating a prayer journal. In this instance, journal connotes notebook for holding lists more than diary. Nothing wrong with that.  Prayer is communicating with God, and talking is one means of communication.

When asked how our prayer efforts were going, I said I prefer to write out scriptures and prayers. I do. Something about using a nice pen on lined paper makes my heart sing and my mind focus. I mean, I have all those pens and that paper (what writer doesn't? Didn't we all start by drooling over blank journals and composition books in the school supply aisle?). Why not use them?

I suspect I am the only person in the group that does this. I'm likely also the only person who has only cats to talk to at home. C'est la vie.

Later, while illustrating a point, the teacher waved in my direction with: "If you're a writer..."

I had to smile. That sums it up, doesn't it? If you're a writer, you write. You write your prayers and your thoughts on scripture. You write blog posts, if that's your bent. You write business letters or short stories or fiction books. The written word is your medium, and you are as comfortable with it as a turtle in water.

After a million words of practice, and another million words or more of application, I am a writer. My first drafts are almost publishable. I would never do that, of course.

It's not that I don't write. It's that I no longer have the drive to write. I have some story ideas. I have the ability to write them down in a readable way. I just don't have the urgency I used to have. It's not a muse thing. I am too practiced to blame a muse's absence for lack of productivity. It's that I don't care anymore whether my stories get told.

I will write, because I'm a writer. What I will write is the question.

Applaud the jellyfish.

100 Days

There's a Stargate SG-1 episode by that name, when O'Neill is stranded on a planet after the stargate is buried in an explosion. Based on the movie character, you would expect him to commit suicide, and he considers it. But a widow explains that after she lost her husband, she wanted to die at first, but slowly, by the 100th day, she was ready to at least try to live again.

Since December, I haven't seen much of the cats. We came together for meals, yes, and playtime, but afterwards, each went to a separate corner of the house and slept or stared out a window or did whatever they were doing when they weren't fighting over me. My narrow bed contained only me.

I thought this is what it will be like now. These aren't my snugglers. These aren't my people-oriented furbabies. Those are gone. We're going to share space in this house until, you know, The End.

In the last 10 days or so, the cats have returned to old patterns. Skamper has resumed sleeping in my lap during the day (he just joined me at the computer and is lying between my arms as I type). Skuttle is torn between GloveLove and being stand-offish. Miss Kitty is chasing anyone who will run.

I counted. Today is the 110th day since Simon journeyed to Aslan's Country. They must have been watching that episode with me and decided we've mourned long enough. Time to resume at least trying to live again.

I hear you, kiddos. Begin next chapter.

Push button. Receive bacon.