Some time my characters won’t rest. They keep me up whispering secrets, desires and goals. They want the story to live and be a beacon for others. After I create them- I let them guide me. Their voice is echoing of the walls of my cranium. Music won’t silence them. the real world demands mean nothing. The story must be told. It must have all its proper parts.
The plot is the frame, the theme acts as the heart, the action the muscles, the brian is story. It is a body waiting to be fully formed. It is my job to gestate and birth.
Like any act of creation it takes bravery and persistence. Tenacity is my middle name and I will sleep when I’m dead- for now a story wants life.
Randomness after 12 hours of writing.
Tonight I sang my grand daughter to sleep. The same aria that rattled my subconscious every night as a girl. The voice that my mother and nana sang to me as I slipped into slumber. Music is the perfect bridge to dreams.
As her angelic face gave way to the restorative rest I saw a vision of perfection. The passing from on mind set to another. The body’s perfect way of dealing with unwanted stress and worry.
For she awakens everyday with a smile. Restored and ready to take on any challenges. As am I.
I had a dream my father died and an unknown tune rang in my ears as I awoke. It led me out from sleep to the waking world, a segue and shuffling off from the detached honesty of sleep to the conscious responsibility of awake.
The music is a bridge. I love that concept. It opens the portal both ways — one brutal the other innocent. Like heavy metal to Vivaldi. The beat and lyrics playing the role of driver and guide.