Back to Reality: Insights from a WPF Newbie

It's Thursday morning and I am still having trouble believing that I have been back from Seton Hill for 4 days. How is that possible? Or perhaps the more interesting question is why do I miss it so much? It's been hard to get back into my regular routine. I work from home and suddenly the house feels to quiet, to confining. I want to be creative and yet my projects feel stilted, the tasks not as interesting as they used to be.  And yet there is so much to do. This never ending list of projects, tasks, chores, and now school work. It doesn't seem like there are enough hours in the day.  Still I know that right now, this is my reality. I should embrace it, or at least try to. When I figure out the secret, I will let you know!

For the time being here is what I have already learned.

1. Do all the SHU Critiques prior to the residency. It sucks to have to find time during them to review people's work.
2. Take the day before off for travel. By that I mean, the day orientation starts, at 7 PM, take it off because travel always takes more time than you think. 
3. Take the day after off for recovery. Although to be honest, I wasn't so much exhausted as I was desperate to test out all the new things that I learned. I wanted to dive right into my writing, instead I got to dive right into conference calls and problems that occurred at work during my vacation.  I think part of my frustration stems from not being able to drown in my fictional world for a while.
4. Explain to people what a residency is. They don't know.  Most of my co-workers think I was at a conference, lounging around poolside, and that I was back home by Friday. Even the ones I took the time to explain it to never seem to remember.  Oh well. 

So those are my immediate reflections thus far. Most important for me, I think is taking time off to ease back into to work, to settle into my new routine, and to find that balance. Right now I have no balance and little motivation as a result to do anything, including write or edit. But I have a long weekend coming up and I am hoping that will do the trick.

A little fun for the fans...

Here is a quick poem that I wrote based off of a writing prompt and photo. I love getting inspiration from photography, asking myself what the story is behind the image. I liked this so much I had to share. In case you are wondering the photo is the same one as the cover of the book.

The Chair

There is a chair in my mother’s house that makes me forget to breathe.

It stands in the corner

across from the window

overlooking the front porch

and the

ankle high grass

and the

small dirt path

and the

fishing stoop where grandpa lost track

of time

I lower myself into its waiting arms.

The worn leather chills my skin.

It molds around my body

like the muddy

rust colored

clay that clings to the hillside behind the barn.

If I close my eyes…

the ghost of my father dances through me-

the scent of Old Spice sweetens the air.

I BECOME LOST

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Short Story Blog Chain

I thought this was a fun little monthly challenge, so I just had to join in.

Here's how it works: Several awesome blog chainers have teamed up to write a short story according to a prompt. We're doing something similar to this post. Elena Johnson picked the first topic, http://elanajohnson.blogspot.com/ and the goal is: (get this), to write! This is a call for writing from anyone, anywhere, any time this month.

May's Topic: Flowers!!

Rules: It's a short story. 100 words, 500, whatev. Post it on your own blog sometime this month (inviting others to write according to the prompt) and come back here (and post your link so we can read yours too!). Your story has to have flowers in it somehow. Any which way.

Here's mine: Short and Sweet.

Garden Refuge
By Missy Lynn Ryan

We met in the garden. It was one of those lazy summer days where the heat gives way to a quick shower and rain sprays over your skin. I was sitting in the cove of a willow tree, protected by its sloping limbs when he came up behind me.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Startled, the charcoal stick in my hand snapped and pieces scattered over the page in my favorite sketch book.

“What are you doing?” he asked again.

I quickly grabbed my bag, collecting my things before standing. “I’m sorry,” I started, the words barely leaving my lips before his hand wrapped around mine, pulling me back towards him. “I was just leaving,” I mumbled.

It was a lie. I wasn’t sure why I bothered. He didn’t believe a word of it.

“Sit with me?” he asked.

Reluctantly, I let him pull me back towards the ground; let him maneuver his body so that my head rested against his shoulder and his arm draped across my back. It was heaven there, in the comfort of his world, with the smell of his cologne lacing each breath. I wanted it to last forever.

But nothing ever does.

I could hear my name off in the distance. Someone calling me, demanding I return to a world, a life, I hated. I tightened my grip on his shirt, refusing to let go. It was no use. His image began to blur as the world around me melted away. I felt a single tear trail along my face. It wasn’t enough time, never enough time.

I woke up with a start in the darkened room, mother banging on the locked door, threatening to remove it from the hinges if I didn’t show any sign of life. I groaned and reached for the light switch as something fell from the blankets tangled around my body. In a moment of confusion I stared down at the flower, a virgin white lily, resting on the floor. Then a rush of warmth took my breath away. Fingers shaking I lifted the flower and inhaled.

It was the first of many bedside gifts from my garden refuge.