Everyone knows that Sunday nights are depressing. We're all dreading the loss of freedom we basked in during the weekend. We start thinking about the morning commute, the tasks awaiting us at the office, the classroom, or wherever else we might work...
For the writer, it's not just the loss of freedom, but the loss of time in which to do creative work. It's the dreaded anticipation of a return to the mundane, the routine, the absolutely uninspiring world of work. The feeling of abject despair is made even worse by the realization that one is trapped, that one is merely working to make a living.
I can hear my muses crying in frustration...
Blogging has now become my outlet, the way back to my creative self. No one and nothing can stop me from doing it. I may not be able to post something every single day, but I have definitely committed to posting at least once a week.
In that other, very seductive world, there are more important, meaningful things to occupy one's time. There are quests to go on, princes to escort one to the ball, dragons to slay, and wicked wizards to destroy. How much more appealing than the daily corporate grind!
So I've been trying to come up with a solution. Thanks to a book I've recently discovered, I am now going to commit to daily writing practice. Yes, indeed! I may or may not post these practice sessions. We shall see...
The book is titled "The Writer's Book of Days", and the author is Judy Reeves. It contains very valuable advice for writers, along with writing prompts for every day of the year.
Since today is November 7th, I looked up the prompt for the day. It is very simple: "Secretly, I know my name is ________________".
And so I begin...
Secretly, I know my name is Merilbeth, and I am really not of this world. I come from another, brighter world, one where magic abounds, and no one thinks this unusual.
My parents have always thought that I was a bit straange, and I have not bothered to deny it. They are not aware of many things, since they live in the consensual reality we encounter every day.
I was sent to this world to tell humans of the true reality -- the reality of dreams and magic, of creatures of fable and legend.
Tonight, I am thinking of Lothlorien, and of the Fellowship. Frodo has a very heavy burden upon him, one that no one can ease for him. My sister Ledwina has spoken to him often of it, and has told me of his perpetual sadness. Even our elven light cannot comfort him. Elbereth herself has tried to ease his sorrow, but it has not been a permanent solution.
Tonight, I stare at the moon and stars from my balcony. They gleam brightly, and I hear the distant singing of Legolas and all my brethren in that other, gentle land.
I cannot join them just yet. I am tied to this reality for now. I can only escape at moments like these, when I am briefly alone to face myself, when nostalgia for the magic and the music of my true native land overwhelm me.
Ledwina is calling out to me. I hear her whisperings in the sudden breeze that gently sweeps aside my long tresses. I want to go to her, to ask her for news of the quest, most especially of the Ringwraiths, and how Gandalf fares.
Turning from the balcony, I enter the living room, which is crammed with books. Bookshelves line one wall, from floor to ceiling. Everything is so still...the moon shines through the open balcony, its light dimly illuminating one row of books. It is midnight, the hour of magic. My husband is already asleep in our bedroom. He knows how I love to stay up late and read, even on Sunday nights.
I approach the row of books lit by the moonlight. I know just the one I want. Reaching out, I ease it out from between its brothers.
It is, of course, "The Fellowship of the Ring".
Humming an elven melody softly to myself, I turn on the reading lamp, and settle into the living room armchair. I push out the foot extension.
Then I begin to read.
"Merilbeth?" She certainly sounds quite upset. "Where have you been? I've been asking Sam about you!"
I turn a page, and there she is, smiling, her hands on her hips, as Sam shyly peeps out from behind her skirts. In the background, I can see them all gathered around a huge table, and Frodo is lifting his elven goblet in a toast. Arwen is smiling, radiant in a silvery gown strewn with tiny pearls. Aragorn is equally jubilant, sitting at her side. Bright torches ring the table, and music is lifting into the cool night air.
Waving at my sister, I fall into the book, and eagerly run toward the gathering.