I have an overwrought mind. My mind is overwrought.
I was going to blog about the weather. Oh, the weather. Frightful, wonderful. It’s raining and has been all morning. It’s also cold.
Cold, wet, miserable LOVELY weather. Weather that makes you stay in bed. Forces you to, really, as you succumb to the warmth and coziness of comforters and covers and, dare I say it, warm balls of fur.
But then I was thinking of Rumi:
“When ink joins with a pen, then the blank paper
can say something. Rushes and reeds must be woven
to be useful as a mat. If they weren’t interlaced,
the wind would blow them away.
Like that, God paired up
creatures, and gave them friendship.
It’s been on my mind a bit for a few different reasons. Partially because whenever I pick up the book, it falls open to that page with my scribbles and exclamation points. Partially because, meaning aside, it’s just lyrically beautiful.
And partially because of the quilt thing.
And that made me think of miracles, and, strangely enough, of homework. Because I needed one to get my homework done in time.
I haven’t quite finished yet.
But I was reading my fiction homework, and I just couldn’t put the book down. It’s Writing in General and the Short Story in Particular by Rust Hills.
I must admit, I felt a little jolt when he said, “[to write] All you have to do is have that twist of the mind that is true talent.”
I have the twist of the mind. Whether it’s the same twist of which he’s writing has yet to be determined, I think. But I grinned, one hand on a coffee cup, one hand on the book, and third (had I a third hand, which I don’t) fisted and raised in my glorious red neck “Hell yeah.”
I realize by reading this book that I may have the chance–and the tools– to go back and fix some flaws in my earlier stuff while still salvaging the majority of it. We’ll see. Right now I’m just trying to get through this semester and four stories for this class.
But first I have to get past the quotation, “What happens in a short story can happen only once” (Hills 9).
Because that’s where I got stuck, off in dreamland, no longer thinking of the weather and Rumi and class and the fact that I’ve yet to shower or finish the short stories to read or a billion other things that need to be done.
Because now I’m thinking of fixed action (repetitive action used in characterization) and moving action (non-repeated action which changes the character).
And I’m thinking of static characters and moved characters. Moved characters, having been “moved” (moving action having been acted upon them), are incapable of ever seeing things the same way ever again. The actions at the beginning that were fixed are now differently fixed; if presented with the fixed choices from before the “movement,” the character would not choose the same way again.
I’m thinking of moving actions in my life. Of things that made it impossible for me to ever be the same person, ever again. I’m thinking about self-discovery which led to a change in my life’s direction.
And now I’m thinking of quilts, and of silent stitches.
And now I’m thinking of gratitude.