I’m supposed to write every day—at least two paragraphs. I’ll tell you that I’m sitting down right now--across the room from Pop who is watching Bonanaza—ready to write, but I can’t think of a single thing about which to write, whether fiction or non-fiction. No poetry either.
It is funny how hard it is to write. I’ve been stuck on one story for prolly about three years. It is crazy. How hard can it be to just WRITE it already?!? I’ve pondered changing the style of the book. First, I should explain. The very first book I wrote in the Hunter series was created as a birthday gift for my friend, Lieh. I conceived of the book whilst in Jamaica doing mission work with her husband. He mentioned that they had planned a birthday party for her at the cement park outside of town on the Saturday after we returned.
I was devastated cos I had promised my elder sister that I would come to see them. She said I hardly ever came to see the kids and that they missed me. For whatever reason, I saw a picture in my mind of a big bird clutching me in his large beak and flying me from San Marcos to Spring (to see my nieces and nephew) and then back to San Marcos in order to catch the tail end of Lieh’s birthday part at the cement park.
I wrote it in poem form and I illustrated it myself. It was the best I could do and fairly good for a beginner. I was happy with the gift and never intended to do more than the one story. Then at Christmastime a year or two later, my younger sister invited me to a special birthday party wherein I was able to meet the governor of our fair state. It was a lovely party! The decorations were fabulous! The Christmas Tree was H-U-M-O-N-G-O-U-S!!!!
Looking at it, I wondered how in the world they managed to decorate it! It was about 16-feet tall! Somehow from that experience, I imagined a young girl whose mother worked for the governor’s decorating team. She was given small little tasks in order to help get the tree decorated. Though I know it isn’t logical, part of her job was putting the star up on the tree, which—of course—was a very daunting task for this little girl. She was so frustrated with her inability to perform this small task that she went out to the gazebo and began crying. Hunter the big bird with the huge beak was flying over Austin and heard her crying and flew down to help her solve her problems.
Then came the day I realized that the story hadn’t even begun yet. I was flying home from a family reunion in Lubbock when I met a young boy who had a certain kind of cancer which rarely allowed its victims to survive more than a year after the diagnosis. I was devastated. I decided Hunter (the boy) needed to be part of the story (actually, previously, the bird had been named Homer, but after I met Hunter, I decided a name change was in order—in order to honor this boy.) With the help of my friend Rachel L. , I decided that Hunter needed to be part of the first story in the Hero bird series. Hunter, the bird, could be going on a vacation whereat he would meet the boy who had cancer. I named the boy Ernest Wayne.
In the story, Hunter ended his vacation by flying Ernest Wayne up to Heaven and dropping him off in the bosom of Abraham. And—as he was flying home—Hunter, the hero bird, decided his life’s work should be helping little kids live good and happy and worthwhile lives.
A great idea, I think (thanks Rachel, for your part!) But somehow, I can’t write it. Writing in rhyming poem form is often very difficult anyway. So, I’m having a hard time. Recently, I have considered re-writing all the stories in prose form instead of trying to wrangle another poem out of such an important story.
I think the idea is important. There is definitely room for future stories and important life lessons can be learned from a series about a helpful hero bird. I feel like this is something I need to do, but I’m having trouble forging on. I wonder if I’m being my own worst enemy?
Anyway, that is what is going on in my mind. It didn’t end up being so hard to write two paragraphs today. ‘Course, y’all oughta know that was just another example of me writing in ‘stream of consciousness. If it is crazy, please forgive.