Writers block and missing Joan

A week or so ago, I realized that my feeling of apathy was the result of a writer's block, probably due to the pressure I was putting on myself to get three separate writing projects done. I didn't feel like working on any of them. My habit in such cases has always been to pick up the phone and call my writer sister. She would commiserate with me and we would have a long conversation about many things,  we'd laugh together, and she'd fix me.

The fact that she is no longer here for me to do that hit me harder than it has at any other time since she died almost a year ago. Oh, Joanie, my darling sister, my mentor, my best friend, my hero, how I miss you!

A few days later, my muse seemed to return, and I finished two of the projects in two days, leaving the biggest one, the one that is jointly mine and Joan's. She began a book years ago. During my visits with her during her last months, we discussed it. I read the parts she had written, and they are amazing.  She said she wanted it finished. She hoped she could do it, but in the end she just couldn't, and I promised her I would. Thanks to her drawing her characters so completely and the many hints about where the plot might go, I think I can.

But today, when I thought I would get back into it, I found myself doing other things, including writing poems. I know I will get back to writing, and the muse will be with me, and I will make more progress on her book called, Prism. In the meantime, let me share a little ditty I wrote about the seasons, because there is a bit about the book in there too.

TIME 
(September 2, 2014, 5:30 am)

Dang you time, you go so fast.
I'd rather see my summer last
A few more weeks so I can do
Half the things I've planned to do.

Yet autumn's here. I cannot waste
The lovely days with undue haste.
It's time to get up from my chair
And hike the hills when weather's fair.

Winter's coming. It won't be long,
Cold and dark. I must be strong,
And put the long, dark nights to use
Penning stories like a recluse.

I've finished two of my tasks this week
and now can return to Prism speak
And let the muse carry me on
To solve the mystery of where Deb has gone.

The Prism surely has some power
to transport her in the witching hour
So yes, I'll write to find the key
to unlock Prism's mystery.

Joan Bochmann's Writing

It's been a long time since I've posted here. Not because I've forgotten her—my dear sister, Joan. Far to the contrary. I miss her as much as ever, and I think of her a million times a day. I guess it's because it was just too hard at times. But Joan will never be forgotten, and in time, I will continue to share her wonderful writing—the book starts, the articles, and stories she entrusted to me—with the world.

I made a promise to Joan and I plan to keep it. She asked me to finish one of her books, if she didn't get it done. Unfortunately, she was unable to, although she worked on it almost up to the time of her death. The name of the book is Prism. There are nineteen chapters and various notes and possible inserts to it in her wonderful voice. It would be a shame to leave them hidden away in a box of file folders.

For a while, I suffered overwhelming sadness when I attempted to retrieve them. Besides, I was working on a novel of my own. I've finished the first draft of that, and so I attempted to delve into hers. At first I just couldn't do it. On the second attempt, I packed up all the files pertaining to that book and took them to a quiet coffee shop to work on them. It was a good start. I began by reading through her pages and taking notes on each chapter. In the process, I've been given ideas of where the story might go. Once I pick up her characters where she left them, I'll let them lead me to solve the story's mysteries and find the perfect ending. I don't know how long this will take. I've other jobs pressing for my time, making this a more or less spare-time endeavor.

I am somewhat surprised by the feeling that working on this book gives me. The grief and regrets that have plagued me since she died seem to be replaced by or maybe morphed into a feeling of solace as though through this work I am close to her.  Once again, I am blessed by her words.