To travel without movement

Snow-blind between the galaxies. I bend space-time to be close to you. But my water isn't enough for your desert to flower. They speak to me. With red-colored lips they explain the laws of physics. My lipstick isn't red enough and I don’t have bright blue eyes. Mine are as green as the forest I would plant for you. If you’d ever let me plant a forests. I rage. Overflow. You wait patiently. Knowing nothing can defeat the desert. Your indifferent heat burns me. More than that time I reached into the sun. You know they come with lies and toxic gases. Still, you let them touch you. Your skin is tight over your chest. Gold and copper. They leave greasy imprints all over your skin. Desert winds and sand scrape you clean. Hurting my cheek. There are no longer any obstacles. Trips take seconds. The air is heavy with the scent. I want to be one of the nomads. Riding through your desert. My water would give me free passage. I know. It’s not the water of life. The only truth my water reveals is my obsession. Let me tell you about my home world.

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I should have known better …

Last week was my husbands last week of summer holiday and I had thought that with him wanting to be as much as possible with the kids I could get some writing done. Yeah right! Who was I kidding! Tuesday morning I woke with a sore throat and a few hours after that my voice was gone So instead of sitting down at my laptop, I lay flat out on the sofa drinking tea and feeling sorry for myself. The day after Pumpkin started to sneeze, and we had some fun nights with a very fussy baby resulting in me feeling even more poorly. All the writing and editing I had planned didn’t happen, but I did get to write some poetry.

A Room of One’s Own

It was Virginia Woolf who said that women need a room of their own, a room where we will be able to write (fiction more specifically). I was lucky in that respect when I began to read and then later on when I started to write poetry and prose as a teenager. I was always encouraged to both read and write, and my father would take me to the library and introduce me to the wonderful world that is Science Fiction. Growing up I was sort of an only child, I never had to share my space with anyone. Okay, the “sort of an only child”-thing might need some explaining. My older sister, by 6 years, was severely handicapped ( Retts Syndrome ), so we could never have any kind of sisterly bond or do anything together. When she was 17 she died from heart failure, leaving my parents and I to continue life without her. Yes, it was an easier life because she needed so much help and we could never take any long trips; or if we did my parents had their hands full with her and sometimes I was l...

I Killed Him!

I’ve started writing my novel again; maybe it’s being back at school that’s given me all these ideas. What I have so far is almost half a book, it needs more detail and some fleshing out and maybe some more drama before I can say it’s finished. A friend has been reading what I have so far and has been asking me questions about why and who and where, making me see that some things weren’t as clear as I thought they were. She also pointed out that one of my characters does nothing for the story. He just tags along, saying hardly anything and I realized that I put him in only because I wanted the boys and girls to be an equal number. So now, when I’m rewriting and adding he’s been cut out. I killed him. Well, maybe not anything as drastic as that, but he’s gone from the story. This changed the story some (duh), and it’s now better. There’s more focus on my main character and those closest to her. After dragging myself to the gym today I now really feel the need to get started with...

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