not much to say

I'm really in the mood to write. It's cathartic for me. It's really a shame I don't have much to say. What to do? Do I just ignore the urge and go read a book? Ramble on about what's happening in my life until something seems noteworthy? Ctrl + a and delete? I don't know. I haven't decided.

I used to think James Joyce was really, really weird. Stream of consciousness just seemed like a pitiful excuse for a writing style. Then I read Araby and I fell in love. I even thought that Araby would be a great name, for a while. Araby Rain, as a matter of fact. Now that I'm an adult (and a mother), I've changed my mind about that. James Joyce is now one of my favorite authors and oddly enough, stream of consciousness sits quite well with me. I guess nights like tonight are exactly why.

I can completely understand the need - or at least the yearning - to write. It's creative, and not just in the "I'd like to pretend I'm eclectic so I claim I can write" sort of way. Creative in the "I'm just stringing together letters, words, and eventually sentences and wow - look at that - they make a story" sort of way. Hence, I created something. I guess if I never come into my muse, if I never come across a story worth telling a thousand times over, I could follow Mr. Joyce's lead and ramble for a while.

I hope that one day my muse does find me. I can picture it. . . sort of. In my head, it's not grandiose. It's not a dream. It's not even a real experience that I can tell a story about. In my head, I'm sitting idle, in between tasks if you will. Let's say at a stop light or perhaps in an airport terminal. As easily as I can lose myself in a novel, I'm lost in my own thoughts. BAM! There it is. The whole story. Characters. Plot. Outline. Irony. Undetermined literary devices. I can really see it happening- snap - just like that. The outline will unfold on the back of a Continental Airlines "what to do if this plane crashes" pamphlet that I will shamelessly steal at the end of the flight. The characters names will be recorded as a note in my cell phone, later to be Googled to make sure they aren't porn stars. The plot? Well. Maybe it will write itself. Maybe it will be in my head, begging to come out. Maybe it will be half written in shorthand on my itinerary, barely legible. But for now, I'll just meander through my own thoughts and be satisfied that I got to write, even if just for a minute or two.