Brown leaves are scattered across the ground. They sky is gray and song lyrics of similar words said in a similar way and in a similar order are filling my mind just now. It has been cold this week but today is a bit warmer; warm enough not to have to put wood in the stove anyway.
The winds have been high for the last week, especially at night. The deer continue to chase one another and the coyotes continue their late night hunting sessions. Cattle stand around the hay bales making it through these cold nights just as they somehow make it through the hot summer days. All of this makes me feel thankful to simply have a roof over my head, however basic it may seem to others.
I've been contemplating building a small writer's studio to write my next novel within for some time now. There is a hill on the ranch that I have spent many an hour upon with my tablet and bluetooth keyboard and folding chair. I think the view alone could inspire anyone to write. There was a time where one couldn't see a single house from the top of the hill, now I think there might be one house visible, several miles away.
I don't yet write as easily as I feel like I should. Nor do I completely understand the complexities of the need for a writer's mind to have that writer's space: that location where magic happens (or doesn't as the case may be).
My ideal space tends to be mostly outdoors where I can hear the rustling leaves in the winds that blow along the Earth's surface or the noise the leaves make as I walk across their dead Fall/Winter existence. To hear the acorns drop in numbers this time of year reminds me of the first signs of hail hitting the ground during a Spring storm. I like to watch the way the brown stands of grass sometimes shudder like I do when I'm cold in the light winter breeze. And the way the air feels in my lungs out in the country: that earthen smell that passes the senses when inhaled though the nose.
Many say they like the country because it is quiet and I can only attribute this to the noise that humans make in the cities, because the only true silence the country has to offer is that from other people, and even this is fleeting these days. If it isn't aircraft flying over head, then it's oil and gas wells being drilled in the distance. If it isn't the rumble of semi-trucks driving down the highway miles away, it's someone honking a horn or sounding a siren while calling their cattle. If it isn't the rumble of possible earthquakes, it's the sound of someone firing a gun (especially during hunting season). But, thankfully, for myself, what human noise exists out here isn't constant, most of the time anyway.
Here I have plenty of time to work out thoughts and, yes, I love to think, to contemplate, to at least attempt to understand. I hope it shows in my work, but I am not always convinced it comes through. I think one of the best compliments I ever received on my writing was when someone asked me why all my characters thought so much. If there is any part of me in my stories, I hope that part comes through precisely as intended.
I know I've been a bit random on this week's post, but sometimes it's just the nature of my thoughts. After all, without diversity, where would we writers be?