It's Not Just a Hobbsy

If you post, they will come.

My posts stretch further across the calendar, lately, and part of me hopes that at least some of you have noticed. You are my thirty-two, after all. I have certainly taken note because it is within posts that a nagging feeling finds its way onto my shoulders. Usually this feeling surfaces right before I fall asleep, after I have processed the list of other things that have to roll over to the next to-do. It is after a long day of not-posting, right before I drift off to sleep that my conscious plants its mantra: if you post it, they will come. 

You see, I used to have a back-log of words scribbled here and there that ultimately found a home on eD. The beginning of the blog was a different time, for me. I was writing every day, my attention was driven by curiosity and characters. And there were characters, everywhere. There were notes and ideas scribbled on insets to writing books, flagged pages within the works of fiction that I admired and flew through, draft e-mails addressed to me with my own rants, and a notepad on my iPhone filled with rambles and sketches. It was out-and-about where words found me. 

Lucky people look for luck; they find money on the street because they walk with their heads down. Writers look for words; when found, they fold them into stories. Harrison Shepherd, in one of his notebooks transcribed by stenographer Violet Brown (The Lacuna, by Barbara Kingsolver), said it best: 

Accumulating words is a charlatan’s career. 

I’d love to be that charlatan, now I just need to go out there and find me some words.