Today, Google reader provided this little gem: Notes from a Cottage Industry
I’ve followed Tracy Buxton’s blog for almost a year for no particular reason.
I don’t do garage sales. I don’t decorate enough to count. I don’t paint anything (hubby hid my brushes decades ago.)
Still, I read Ms. Buxton’s every post and hang over the pictures thinking vapid thoughts such as—‘good gravy can you imagine dusting that thing’ or ‘she gave up Saturday morning to sift through refuse? ‘
Her transformations are always amazing, her picture taking skillz beyond compare but really—this is so not me.
Then today, she posted this:
‘“I'd have to say that my most favorite part of my glorified junk business is right at the very beginning. Yes, the very moment I first spot an item that for whatever reason, seems especially interesting or vintage. Looking at old castaways in a thrift shop, flea market, or yard sale, seeing it with fresh eyes, and then, having an idea suddenly spark in my mind of how I can envision the treasure recreated. My eyes glaze over and my head very nearly spins as I my brain goes in a million different directions. I am filled with a burst of sudden and complete energy and inspiration. I cannot wait to get the new-to-me item home and begin making a large mess creating a masterpiece. The next thing I know, three hours have passed (although it feels like twenty minutes) the item is completed and priced and I am so excited I could stay up all night doing project after project, and I find myself repeatedly sneaking back to the item I reinvented, just to gaze at it and smile with a huge sense of satisfaction. Seriously.”
Eureka! Replace a few key words (junk business=write fiction) and you have the reason I type, and most likely the reason I love her blog so much—deep calling to deep—something inside this jaded Pharisee recognized the spark of creativity lighting up her world and wanted same for self.
Once upon a time I wrote constantly until life majorly interfered. I was getting the nicest rejection letters you ever did see (kept them all—probably the only person on the planet to read these for inspiration) and had a rotten little romance published in Woman’s World Magazine. Then on Memorial Day weekend, our home took a direct hit via oak tree and all the Brz’s scampered away for several years to lick our tiny wounds (and rebuild the house). My Dana died in the process. My aggravating little one-track-mind switched to crisis mode. My fingers forgot how to dance. Two years building the new house, nursing my father in law through his final months, moving my mother (twice), keeping up with homeschooling the kiddies and, for some strange reason, all the writing went to the back burner.
Okay, more descriptive, less cliche'—got hopelessly buried under the rubble of our old house and couldn’t unearth the silly thing for the life of me.
Another two years and I’m busy growing the real estate business, writing constantly on the blog, graduating some, educating others, drinking tons of coffee and playing dominos in the new house with friends. And not writing.
Enter pushy husband:
“Connie, don’t you think it’s time to get back to your writing?”
“Honey, you’ve had a nice long break, howsabout getting back to the stories?”
(and finally, pulling out the big guns)
“Hold it, I’m getting something—wait, wait—The vision is clear—you, oh wife of mine, are Called to Write.” (gotta love it when they play the God card…)
Now why is hubby dear so intent on pushing little me back to the keyboard? Does he have visions of dollar signs dancing through his head? Does he think I have the talent of Stephen King or the storytelling ability of Miss Austen? Considering he’s a big ‘blow everything up then save the world’ kinda reader, I’d say that’s a no.
Actually, the reason is very simple: When I write, I’m euphoric. Bird’s sing, flowers sprout from various locations and husbands get extra snuggles.
The man is spoiled.
This last year, perusing Ms. Buxton’s blog, something kept calling me back—a tiny voice, niggling at my insides like the mice in my stories. Watch me, Connie Mae-I’m finding my voice, loving my work, sacrificing for what I love. Get your behind off that couch and grab your laptop.
And I did.
So, thanks Tracey. I heard you~
