Hell Week for Writers

I do some theatre work from time to time.  I enjoy making props and decorating sets.  The week leading up to opening night is called “Tech Week” where you get everything together and make it function – lights, costumes, props, sound, actor cues and so forth.  That week is also referred to as “Hell Week” because it’s very stressful. I have friends who are dedicated thespians who work full time day jobs then work until late at night after work to make a lovely piece of theatre for their community.  It’s a beautiful thing!

Anyway, I’m in my book’s Hell Week.  I need to get my edited, proofed, properly formatted manuscript of almost 90k words uploaded to the books sites by this up-coming Saturday.  I actually shouldn’t even be taking time to post this blog entry, but I couldn’t help myself.  I also wanted to explain, for those of you who like my regular posts of Wonderful Word Wednesday and Sensual Sunday, why those things haven’t been happening.  But I do want to share these photos of the flowers we bought at our local farmer’s market yesterday and also say that I am sure to write a Sensual Sunday soon about the farmer’s market.  This GORGEOUS bunch of flowers was only $8 from a family farm.  Buy local!  Support your local farmers!

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Sensual Sunday – Bloom

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Soft pink petals, parting.  You pluck them.  Pastel hues, gathered into bunches.  An offering that makes me smile.  I say a tiny blessing that I trust this gift.  Once upon a time I used to get flowers from somebody else.   Receiving them never felt as pleasurable as this.  More often I felt the thorns in those offerings.  As though there was an apology in them, for things I didn’t know were happening.  Sad things, behind my back. I blink the unhappy thought away.

I smell the bouquet and and sneeze.  A tiny squeak that always elicits giggles from anybody nearby.  Your face is warm and your energy is open.  You wrap your arms around me and I bury my face in, inhaling your smells and feeling the texture of your cotton shirt against my cheek. I grasp a wrinkle of jersey in my free hand and press hard into you.

I take them to the sink and fill a faded blue glass antique jar with water.  The smell of green as I snip of blades to tidy the ends.  Dropping them into the vessel I parade them to the table, sitting them on the lace tablecloth near the tea cups resting in a puddle of sunshine.

There is beauty in these small things.  These gestures.  And the beauty blooms and grows in new ways inside of me now that so much pain is behind me.  I am not in a constant state of receiving apologies for things I don’t know that have occurred.  It is plain.  You offer a gift that you were thinking of me and I accept the gift with trust.

We lay down together, spooning in our own ray of sun.  Your hand resting in the valley of my hip.   Your breath on the back of my neck.

“Tell me a story,” I say, only slightly childish.

“Once upon a time there was a mermaid…” you begin a tale made from familiar places and happy endings as I drift off to sleep.

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