There's this great feeling when you write the final sentence in your novel.
I've done it maybe 40 times (because I've rewritten things). It's great. It's euphoric. It's amazing.
And then you read through the whole thing and do some editing, and you feel like it's really good enough. Perfect.
And that's when this sort of lost feeling settles in. It isn't like finishing reading a novel. It's sort of sad. Because you suddenly don't have anything to do. That's probably why I end up writing series so much.
Last night I did that. I finished it.
It's my favorite book I've ever written. And it isn't perfect yet, but I need a break.
So. Here I am. Wanting to write something new. I want to craft. I want to think and create. But I'm sort of blocked. I think the energy the kids take from me is sapping my creativity.
Or maybe I watch too many TV shows now.
I'm just rambling. There is no point to this post. Read my previous one. It's better.
Friday, September 20, 2013
Music and Laughter
I guess in music years, the age is gone and past
but I still hear that dulcimer
and find myself back in 1996
listening to the wind
and wondering where the wilderness would end
I guess to some you're just a memory,
a song we sang at camp
and to some others you're a legacy
To me you were like a friend I never met
because you spoke about things no one else could
and though you and me were only poetry, you understood
something about broken hearts made whole
and beautiful things lost and buried
and how the world spins around us and leaves us cold
But redemption and hope
could be heard in your songs
and your words spoke to my very soul.
And then on a cold September morning
it was over just like that
I'd barely even found you, and then you were gone
Out the back door, while we were all busy singing
And to some you're just a memory
of a song we sang at camp
But to me you're some kind of missing part
because you played piano like magic
and I wish you were here still
to sing songs to my broken heart.
*
I'm not one to sentamentalize something that I'm really not part of. But every year, when September 19th comes along, I think about Rich Mullins, and I sort of... miss him? You can't really miss someone you don't know, you don't miss what never was. But you have this feeling that you're missing out. I'm sure he's happy and whole in heaven, singing songs full of joy and laughter, and I can't wait to see him there.
My friend Tony said it on the one-year anniversary of Rich's death. "Someone left us last year. He just slipped out the back door while we were all busy singing."
It seemed wrong that he died, but it also seemed like he longed for a real home.
If you aren't familiar with him, you might not appreciate the music any more. It's beginning to be "aged". But I recommend looking him up. He was talented, but he said things that people didn't like to hear. He didn't give pat answers, and he knew something about love that many people are missing nowdays. He makes you uncomfortable, but it's the good kind, the restless kind that makes you think maybe you missed something about God and now you need to go find out.
Here's a site kept up by his friends that lists all of his articles he wrote for Release Magazine:
http://www.kidbrothers.net/release.html
And here's a video (if I did it right).
but I still hear that dulcimer
and find myself back in 1996
listening to the wind
and wondering where the wilderness would end
I guess to some you're just a memory,
a song we sang at camp
and to some others you're a legacy
To me you were like a friend I never met
because you spoke about things no one else could
and though you and me were only poetry, you understood
something about broken hearts made whole
and beautiful things lost and buried
and how the world spins around us and leaves us cold
But redemption and hope
could be heard in your songs
and your words spoke to my very soul.
And then on a cold September morning
it was over just like that
I'd barely even found you, and then you were gone
Out the back door, while we were all busy singing
And to some you're just a memory
of a song we sang at camp
But to me you're some kind of missing part
because you played piano like magic
and I wish you were here still
to sing songs to my broken heart.
*
I'm not one to sentamentalize something that I'm really not part of. But every year, when September 19th comes along, I think about Rich Mullins, and I sort of... miss him? You can't really miss someone you don't know, you don't miss what never was. But you have this feeling that you're missing out. I'm sure he's happy and whole in heaven, singing songs full of joy and laughter, and I can't wait to see him there.
My friend Tony said it on the one-year anniversary of Rich's death. "Someone left us last year. He just slipped out the back door while we were all busy singing."
It seemed wrong that he died, but it also seemed like he longed for a real home.
If you aren't familiar with him, you might not appreciate the music any more. It's beginning to be "aged". But I recommend looking him up. He was talented, but he said things that people didn't like to hear. He didn't give pat answers, and he knew something about love that many people are missing nowdays. He makes you uncomfortable, but it's the good kind, the restless kind that makes you think maybe you missed something about God and now you need to go find out.
Here's a site kept up by his friends that lists all of his articles he wrote for Release Magazine:
http://www.kidbrothers.net/release.html
And here's a video (if I did it right).
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