Make It Or Bake It

For the last two year, the Sidekick and I have participated in Make It Or Bake It for Christmas. The idea behind it is to try and make or bake the majority of your gifts for coworkers, friends, family, or anyone you are giving something to because you feel obligated to. Just kidding. Last year, I knitted the girls I work with each something unique. This year I am doing the same. It is quite the endeavour. And, like last year, I am insisting I am going to start earlier for Christmas 2015. I never end up giving myself enough time.

If you aren't a knitter, or artistically awesome like the Sidekick who can draw, literally anything, there are other ways to participate in Make It Or Bake It. Two years ago I made caramel corn for a few family members, which I think they enjoyed, and this year I am going to try my hand at candies for those I love.

The simple fact is, I am too poor to buy everyone gifts (granted, knitting people things is also kind of expensive). And I also am finding the consumerism of Christmas daunting, which is why Make It Or Bake it was brought into fruition.

What are you making or baking for people this year?

The Endpaper Mitts I made for Tiffiny last year. 

You Can't Start A Fire Without A Spark

Bruce Springsteen clearly has a lot to teach us. Okay, he might have been talking about love when he sung that line from Dancing In The Dark, but it's a pretty apt observation. You certainly can't start a fire without a spark. Not only is it applicable to love and life and adventures and happiness and new starts, but it coincides with writing.

At this very moment, I've sat down to write a short story, just to get into the habit of writing again, and I need the spark. I can't start without it. If I do, I will remain uninspired and the words will dry up, dwindle, and fade away, then I will have another beginning without a middle and end. The creative juices shall not floweth until I get a flicker. A bit of heat. Some sort of combustion would be nice. Something that will turn into an all out inferno.

It's hard to know when it will come. What will feed the fire. If the spark will fizzle due to lack of oxygen, much like every spark I've had in the last couple months. The best is when you do get the spark and a decent flame going, you're putting kindling on it, stoking it, blowing, and it catches! Oh, it's a glorious feeling to watch the fire build, then you need to put something bigger on it, so it can heat the whole house and not just the living room. This is where it turns into a real challenge. What if the bones aren't dry enough? What if it starts raining doubt and uncertainty? Sometimes a huge gust of negative wind will sweep through and threaten to extinguish the fire of creativity.

Sometimes it does, and you feel so angry that you spent all that time trying to build the fire. You're frustrated because you didn't get to put it out yourself. There are times you kick at the depressing ashes. Other times, you crouch back down and blow on the coals, hoping against all odds you can revive it. The joy that comes when you succeed is exhilarating, nothing compares, but so many times it simply burns out. You promise to come back to it later in the day. Days turn to months. Months to years. Every now and then, you revisit it.

All of this glorious work and frustration and excitement doesn't happen if not for one little thing.

A spark.

So, we wait.

Do These Words Count?

These days, I can't be arsed to write. The creative juices aren't dried up (that sounds really wrong). In fact, I come up with wonderful ideas for novels and short stories all the time. It's the actual act of sitting down at my computer and hammering out a few thousand words that seems so tedious right now. 

The only writing I've been doing are these posts. Do they count? Since January, I've published at least a hundred thousand. I'm guessing. I really can't be certain how many words I've actually typed out here. More, maybe? Certainly not less. We are over halfway through the year, which means I'd only have to average five hundred words a day in order to make a hundred thousand of them. Now, some of my posts aren't very wordy, but I have been known to get ranty, or wordy. Yeah, wordy. It sounds far more pleasing to my ear. 

Anyhow, they say you need to make room for what you love. There's one of those motivational Facebook posts everyone is sharing and no one is following. Something along the lines of doing the thing you love for at least fifteen minutes every day. The conclusion being you won't believe how life-changing only fifteen minutes a day can be. 

So, I love writing. Creating is exciting for me. And when I set out to do a blog-a-day for a year, I thought it would be a great way to stick to writing every day. This was supposed to be my fifteen minutes, I guess. Except, these take way longer than fifteen minutes. But the thought was there. This was me making room for what I love. 

The problem is, most of all my other writing has ground to halt. This makes me wonder, has this blog-a-day for a year been detrimental to my other more creative writing? Is making time for blogging cutting into me penning the next great Canadian masterpiece? I like to think I have it in me to write more than a blog a day. There was a time when I was churning out books every other month. Ah, the good old days when I used to write at work. 

There are excuses. It's been a less than stellar year. I'm moving. The job takes up a lot of my time. I'm working hard to keep my relationship with the Sidekick healthy. Two dogs are more time consuming. I've been trying to be more healthy and active. 

But it really comes down to inspiration. I suppose I am uninspired lately. And tired.

So, tell me these words count, because if not I'm going to be really displeased. 

Blustery

Blustery is one of my most favourite words. Today, is one of those days. The wind is howling. Rain is falling in a sheet, from the side, cold and fierce, undeniable in its desire to soak you through to the bone. Wind chimes are knocking together. We have the wooden ones. So the sound is quite pleasing to the ear.

Dixon stood in the doorway for twenty minutes staring out into the storm. All day, he's done the same thing. Sat on the porch, smelling the air, but he refuses to go out in the rain. There's something amusing about him not wanting to get wet. I even went out there to clean up the garden a bit. Still, he sat on the porch. Watched the cars go past. Smelled the fresh, wet air.

I have decided to take a cue from my hound dog and am staying in.

My lofty goals for this weekend are to finish the novel I have been writing. It's a magical story full of wonderment and odd encounters. More so, it's about friendship and being who you are. You know, those boring themes almost all novels have in them. It's been going on far too long, though. Writing this thing.

So, as the rain comes down, tapping on the window, I will be tapping on my keyboard.

Trying to be creative. I am grateful that I can pretend to be a writer today.

Exquisite Moments Of Utter Stupidity

I will write a book with this title. 

These are the types of notes I have in my 'ideas' folder. 

It's kind of embarrassing. 

But I can't delete them. 

There is a beginning of a poem that starts and when the moon is my companion. 

And I am no poet. Trust me. 

Another single line entry reads: Love, the ultimate goal, achieved only through heartbreak and walking a line towards a goal you often doubt exists.

Not sure what I was going for with that. Some sort of self help book? Oh, how hilarious. 

And there this paragraph that makes me laugh - Like some sort of post graduation cliché, except I was twenty-two, not nineteen, I found myself employed at a coffee shop called Bitches Brew. Only snarky females need apply. Also, I lived in a dive apartment with two other girls I barely knew. Gretchen, a wannabe folk singer, who wore toques all year round, and Polly, a waif-thin girl who aspired to be the next screenplay writer of modern chick things and who took up smoking to better suit the persona. Highly allergic to cigarette smoke and folk music, I didn’t exactly enjoy my room-mates. But they were better than my last ones—my parents.  

Perhaps I was going to write the next best disenchanted youth novel, or guide to falling in and out of love.

 

Is it just me who has this unreasonable attachment to every silly little bit and bobble of story I create? 

The folder is ever-expanding. 

First lines, paragraphs, dreams, novels with twenty thousand words that I never finished. I am overflowing with these files, which would be scraps of paper if this was fifty years ago.

Now I kind of wish they were scraps of paper. 

It's easier to forget about random files buried in my dropbox in a top secret folder. 

Harder to hide a book. 

If I had one, I'd keep it by my bed and add ideas to it every night.  

But that might only add to my abundant idea problem.