Writer’s block

The trees outside the room are green.

The sky is gray.

This room is full of that weird overcast light where it’s too bright outside to turn on the lights indoors but too dark to feel quite right unless you’re directly next to a window.

I don’t know what to write about. They say writers’ block can only be cured by writing, so here I am.

My sister is showering in the next room and she just let out a rousing chorus from Les Mis.

The water pounds.

There is more water in the air outside, shivering with anticipation, just barely held back. It’s as if the sky is still waiting for something, some heavenly cue to let the curtains fall.

The branches sway in the wind, but it is not that rousing gust that comes just before a storm. We have a while yet, I think.

Why is it that people always talk about the weather? I guess because it’s something that’s always there, and something that doesn’t leave anyone out for lack of common ground. You can talk about the weather with a perfect stranger, if you like.

I’m reading John Scalzi’s Lock In right now. It’s terrific, highly recommended.

It also has a really well-designed cover.

I wonder if he’s written other books.

I wonder if Patrick Rothfuss is ever going to come out with the third Kingkiller Chronicle. What a brilliant  writer. He has this way of putting words together, like a river flowing over smooth stones.

I hope you all have a wonderful new year.

Blessings.
–Bre

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Published by

Breanna Joy

Once upon a time, in a far-away land, there was born one chill wintry day a lass who would come to be called Bre. She grew up whiling away the time upon myriad pursuits that would one day shift from pursuits to passions; creative, curious, and mischievous, she loved to read whatever she could manage to get her hands on (in particular novels, those of plot complex, world intriguing, and characters remarkable) — and read she did! She devoured words with so fierce a joy that she grew skillful in wielding such words as her own — story, journal, article, post and poem alike. For other arts, she also nurtured admiration. She loved in her heart the beauteous sound of music and the power it held over emotion and spirit. And she would work with her own hands to sketch and to paint and to correct and to create. One of her deepest passions was the stage, where she would take on a character as if an article of clothing, and live and breathe in another’s skin. In addition, the stories of times past and cultures distant enraptured her fascination, and she dreamed of one day venturing to explore these unknown lands. But these, these were nothing to the true heart of her soul. She found for herself a motley band of what can only be called friends–though some of whom were, truth be told, far more than that to her. They changed her being and resided in her heart. And so she lived, and loved, and dreamt. She dreamt of adventure and beauty and song and story and love and laughter. But far beyond anything else, did she strive with love toward her God. For this was her own great quest, or, if you will, her part in His own great story: to love those in the world, as He had loved her, when she had not loved Him–indeed, when she had turned from Him, hid from Him, rejected Him and ignored Him–He loved her enough to die for her. And so, because of this great love that now burned like a fire inside of her, a blazing beacon, she strove for a life lived in a beautiful harmony to Him who gave her a second chance. As she grew, she became confused, and doubting, and weak, and afraid, and unclean, and she would forget, and go to the world that was pressing at her to give in, in an attempt to satisfy her emptiness, though it would always leave her wanting. But always she would return, and be whole and filled again, made complete and beautiful in her soul. Storms would come and battles would rise; she would be tried and tested in many ways, and even so the story continues, but know ye this–He held her and led her all her days, and in the end, He would bring her to His own happily ever after.

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