Peregrine Arc: An Author's Scratchwork
Writing, at least in the first stages, is often a solitary work. Frustration, anger and slow progress all join the party for writers at one point or another. Sometimes you stare at the pages and wonder if you ever properly learned your language. Other days, you forget how to spell your name, pronounce your novel’s title, or even how to properly pee.
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I walked my Labrador this evening. Over hills, through mud, grass, gravel and turf we went, smelling, sniffing and eating things of questionable nature before I could issue a stern “Ka kah!”* Upon our walk, we came across a memorial for local fire fighters. In the sidewalk ambling up laid worn bricks with donors’ names etched. Most of the names were erased by the elements, faint letters visible sporadically, leaving nonsense to be deciphered and speculated.
We lingered only a moment, as my Lab was undertaking a smell inventory. In the pause, I became aware how short human memory and legacies are, despite salesmen’s promises. We are born with nothing; we die with nothing. As a stumbling follower of Yeshua, this doesn’t bother me. I chose to place my trust in him and his words, something I don’t consider transient. This speck of dust does hope to leave some books behind, like the Brontës did in their century. If anything, someone can use the novels to prop open a door for another. Or level a wobbly table or two on the Enterprise. It could happen.
I’ve been in a particularly busy season of my life for the past few years. There’s been some respite and solace, but overall everything’s been at a steady, enduring clip. As things shift and change, I’m starting to realign my time and focus on my personal goals: writing and exercise among them. I’m also volunteering and becoming involved in activities that support my growth and refill my cup. As an introvert, this is a careful balance. Remember my formula? One hour of socializing = one year of hibernation. And yes, I’m still in the red. But it’s less crimson and more of a happy, candy apple red now…
A.R. Clayton 