She runs to the woods. Removes her clothes. Drapes herself across the moss of old dreams. Spreads her legs for a sun. Counts clouds through the canopy. Mosquito-bitten thoughts. Swat, swat. This air she breathes, recycled from laughter and holocausts. Her lungs, two butterfly wings dripping with concrete.
All these words, like trees in a forest. How much rain can be cupped in their leaves? Why am I, as a writer, driven to saturate, to make the branches bend with weight?
Does it make me lighter?
Is that the goal?
Sometimes, when I read others’ work, I feel like a child.
Sometimes, when I work, I am a child.
Perhaps there’s not much value in questioning our writerly instincts and motives. Maybe this is the true self-indulgence. If we simply follow them—if we’re authentic to our voice—some new facet of truth will be integrated into the human kaleidoscope. I admire Cormac McCarthy for his cool, lean sentences. I admire Michael Ondaatje for his brilliant lyrical flights. In the past, I’ve tried to imitate such literary giants. When really, there are seeds still to plant between their mighty trunks.
I’m growing more comfortable with my strengths and limitations. My forest is mine.
Yours is a song the wind knows.
She lifts her voice with the birds, the cicadas, the heat waves of summer.
A world spins faster.
Other stops on my Meet Me In Paris Blog Tour: Travis Erwin • Aniket's Plum Blossom Flash Fiction contest • 25 Questions for Author Sarah Hina • Author Spotlight 7SS with Aerin-Bender Stone • Jaye Wells • Poem at The Walking Man's • Poem Blossoms at Joaquin Carvel's
Plum Blossoms excerpt read aloud by Sarah.
Buy Plum Blossoms in Paris • Amazon • Barnes & Noble • Flipkart • Chapters • Borders • Your Local Independent Bookstore • Powell's Books • Books-A-Million