LATE AFTERNOON LIGHT

Her heels clacked on the stone walkway, as she made her way home, her soft-cotton summer dress, a fading lemon in the late afternoon light, swishing against her bare legs. The fabrics caress reminded her of Antonio's hand, sliding over her knee as they watched the black and white movie in the park.

She smiled, wishing she were still with him, but she had to leave, get up early for work. His eyes lingered in her mind, the way they enveloped her, looked inside her, so deep.

She shook her head, grinning, trailing her index finger across her red-tinted lips, and then she felt as if she was there with him: the smell of honeysuckle so close, as they leaned against the mid-high brick wall, covered in purple and pink flowers, to better see the movie. And the kiss that Antonio stole when she'd left, his lips touching hers, and the taste of red wine on his tongue.

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An earthen chill permeated her skin as she entered the stone tunnel. She shivered and pulled her knitted champagne-colored sweater closer about her.

Her mind's eye swept Antonio's shape, his lean frame, his thick wavy hair hugging his ears, and his strength as he pulled her in so close she thought she could crawl inside him to stay forever safe and loved.

She cinched her sweater tighter about her neck as she walked, the tunnel's chill burrowing its way under her skin, unaware of the ever darkening shadows that collected around her.

She was so distracted with Antonio's vibrant green eyes, like emeralds immersed in clear spring water, that she didn't hear the footsteps following her. Or the metal click of a pistol's hammer being pulled back.

The End of the Dock

     Water lapped against the dock's sides, as if individual gloved hands played patty cake in the distance. Nothing else sounded except the occasional bird, a seagull he thought, but he wasn't sure. His mind was frozen inside his skull, sullen, as if the earth had slipped from under him. The wooden boards creaked beneath his weight as he walked the dock, a reminder of his existence in the world. He flinched at his own breath and wished they had taken all of him—not just his career and his family.   

    A soft breeze, smelling of salt and dead fish, cooled the tear tracks that streamed down his face. He shivered and pulled his jacket closer about him, forcing his hands to leave the warm sanctuary of his pockets. When he stepped to the end of the dock's surface, he paused for a few seconds, listening, remembering. Then he jumped, letting out all breath before hitting the cold, black water.

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MUSINGS OF THE DAY - July 24, 2015

"Everything a writer learns about the art or craft of fiction takes just a little away from his need or desire to write at all. In the end he knows all the tricks and has nothing to say."

- Raymond Chandler -

The other day I was thinking something similar. How easy it is to get online and find all kinds of websites and blogs and think-tanks for writers on how to write. There's also the long list of ways to  figure out agents—what they want and what they don't want. Jeez, it's amazing anything is every written or published, or, for that matter, read.

And boy is there money in it. There's always some ad, book, or program that can give you the magic key to writing, to publishing, to being read, and let's not forget—to making money with your writing. I think the only ones making money are the ones selling how to do it.

I remember a time when I was so busy trying to "write well" that I was spending more time figuring it out than actually doing it. And all the while my fear increased. I can't do this. This is too hard. I'll never make it. I'm just not good enough. And before I knew it I wasn't writing but stuffing my writing in a drawer, pretending I never wanted to write in the first place.

Ugh!

So, enough of that mindless chatter that has nothing to do with writing. I decided to just write and have fun and stop trying to figure it out to guarantee a future outcome.

There's a balance point between learning to do something and doing it. 

Writing, for me, has to come first. Always. 

Then I can incorporate the tricks and gimmicks I've learned, if I want. I can keep learning about the craft of writing, because, truly, I love it too, but the learning of writing well can't replace the actual act of writing itself.


Raymond Thornton Chandler was born in Chicago, Illinois on July 23, 1888 and left this world on March 26, 1959. Chandler was a novelist and screenwriter. In 1939, Chandler's first novel, The Big Sheep, was published.