I don't like forcing myself to write. I like writing when the muse takes charge and flows within me, writing for me. But the muse is elusive, wandering distant lands currently. I've made a promise to write every day in November. So here I am writing about not writing...

The sands dripped like viscous liquid around my bare feet, eradicating all but divots behind me. The steady winds caused a layer of particles like steam to swirl above the crests of the dunes. The grit in my mouth was metallic and harsh, sand drawn in on my panting breath. Each step was laborious, and only gained half the usual distance due to the shifting sands beneath me. The tawny, moving dunes were backlit by a weak autumn sun and framed in a brilliant backdrop of sapphire. Had the sun been at it's summer angle, my feet would be blistered under scorching sands. Instead, the sand was cool and pleasant as it enveloped my feet and scuffed the dry skin gently.

We've come to a time when Autumn borders on Winter. When the crisp air turns to cold air and one's breath shows in white steam. The air makes nostrils tingle and the urge to cough rises in the throat.

Because of the heavy nightly frosts, the fallen colors do not cruch satisfyingly anymore. Instead, the leaves are damp and heavy.

Chilly winds blow the almost bare branches. They reach skeletally to the weak sun, praying for warmth that they will not recieve for many long months.

They days get just warm enough to cause the thick frost to melt, sending rivulets of muddy water down the storm drains in a constant trickle.

The air smells of rotting leaves and more cold to come.

The bright, fresh sun, slices through the chilly morning air, seeps through the slats of my blinds and illuminates a patch on my far wall. I can feel the air creeping in around my rattly windows, and pull my comforter up higher under my chin. It's too early to wake, though the presence sun means it's later than usual. I can hear the breathing of my boyfriend next to me, and the sound of cars driving nearby. And further away, a siren. Ambulance.

I take my time getting up. There is no rush except the pressure on my bladder, but I am loathe to leave the warmth of my bed.

Cold sweat seems so trite rolling from my tongue, or leastwise, coming out of the ends of my fingers onto the keys. But cold sweat is an apt description of how I woke up this morning; later than usual, but not as late as I would have liked for my day off. My brain was in a dream-induced confusion; my down comforter too heavy; and my bed unfamiliarly empty of anyone but me.

It took me a good solid minute of controlled breathing and staring at my dimly lit ceiling to piece things together.

I won't tell you about the dream, or what I remember of it, but only of the feeling it created in my gut, in my head, in my whole being. A feeling of profound wrongness. All was lost to me. My world had been shaken around like a trinket snow globe, but the pieces refused to fall back to logical order. My bastion of support in life is ever-present in my dreams when I remember them, but he was strangely absent from all but the beginning of this one. Replaced only by dread. Dread of decisions about the future, fears about my past, my mother, death, hiding, test anxiety. Apparently the only person I could think of in my dream to help me was far too engrossed in texting and came dressed in a slightly too large Storm Trooper uniform.

I seldom like remembering my dreams. I rarely remember the good ones...

Nov 2

I did not forget to write yesterday, I simply wrote in my notebook and haven't translated it onto my laptop etc. I may not post here every day, but be assured, I am writing.

There is a beagle who lives above me. He is the loneliest beagle in the whole world. I have never seen this dog, but I hear him daily, singing for his owners to return to him and end his cruel lonely torment.

I know that the floor above is not carpeted. This is evident when aformentioned beagle scuddles across it in frantic attempts to find some company.

These are not the only things I know about the apartment upstairs. I also know that the people like to tap dance in each room (on the hardwood floors) at all hours of the day and night. Additionally, they seem to be training for a wrestling title by throwing themselves repeatedly at the floor from some great height.

Also, I'm sure I'd find burried treasure just above my coffee table. I heard them them sawing and digging and pounding there recently.

They are whimsical people who enjoy a new veiw every day or so by routinely dragging heavy objects such as sofas and shelves back and forth.

Then there is the rocking chair. The slow, rhythmic creak wakes me up in the wee hours, as it is directly above my bed.

I feel it in my stomach, heavy, dead. The taste on my tongue contaminates my mouth, makes my throat dry, my lips crack.

The feeling is dread, the taste; fear.

Surprisingly, my hands aren't sweaty, I must have wrung them dry. And my breathing, despite the foulness inside me, is steady and even. i hope my voice can mirror that.



(read nothing into this, it's just a description)

November is for writing.

I am not going to write a novel for the month of November, but I am going to write. A lot. As much as I can. And read more. I am going to write about my memories from youth and abroad. I'm going to write detailed descriptions of places and things. I'm going to write short interactions between characters. I'm going to write some sci/fi and/or fantasy. I may even write some smut, if the muse presents itself.

I'm going to. Keep me to it.

I want to write so badly. (I do write badly? Poorly?) I wish to put into words the thoughts in my head. The visons I see on these clear autumn days. I want to write about the snow-flocked pinons in early October, the swish of crystals underfoot. I don't know how to describe the delicious crunch of flaming leaves lining the sidewalks, or the way the air smells in the morning as the sun is waking up the sky. Mere discriptions only go so far. I crave meat for these fine skinned bones. I want to be able to transport people, to make them feel as I intend. To manipulate and lie to show them the truth as I see it. It is a lofty goal.