I am a writer of songs. I am a writer of blogs, a writer of Facebook posts, and even occasionally a writer of stories. Of all these, my songs are most likely to be heard, seen, repeated, to last beyond my years. I am learning to live with this, even as I am frustrated that I can't seem to give voice to the stories thronging inside my head, clamoring for release.
It sometimes happens that I experience a bleakness that is almost overwhelming in its nature. I say "almost" because although I'd like to just let the tide swallow me whole, I can't. It's no easier to endure, but endure I must.
From time to time, in the midst of the bleakness, I can find a spark of hope, something to look forward to - my childrens' birthdays, a visit with my mother, some time with a friend, something of the world that reminds me there is beauty yet to be seen.
And now? A book.
There are a few, a handful at most, authors whose work I look forward to. Patrick Rothfus. Dean Koontz. Dick Francis (although he's deceased, his son has been endeavoring to keep the family reputation alive and publishing). Anne McCaffrey. Starhawk.
The latter has something new in the works, and it brightened my day considerable to learn of it: A sequel to one of my most favorite of books (The Fifth Sacred Thing, and if you haven't read it, do...it shattered me into motes of light and then coalesced me again, brighter than before) - City of Refuge is now something to look forward to.
Like my daughter waiting for me to scoop ice cream into the bowl, I am impatient for my treat, but I'll keep...for a little while...