Creativity- Blossom and Bloom!

Hollyhock Bud

Photograph by Charles Childers

This time of year is rich with wildflowers and rain. I plucked this hollyhock bud from a bush taller than I am, at nearby Haviland Lake. I wanted to share this picture with you today to remind you that all creative projects start as a seed; my new story, "A Phone Call," which you'll soon be seeing here, is a bud not yet unfurled. I have planted the seed; the idea is growing, but I haven't yet committed it to paper.

Given sunshine and love and plenty of water, the dream-seeds you plant today will thrive in their own time. Take the time to nurture one of your budding projects with a little sun, fresh water, or whatever it needs to grow. Let the light of your inspiration shine down! Let the Fount of the Muses flow freely over all the flowers in your creative garden! Dance barefoot in the mud and feel it squish between your toes! Sow your dream-seeds wherever you find fertile ground.

Chaos Reigns

We're moving! We found a lovely little victorian in durango and can't wait to move in! Yay! Soon I will be within walking distance to downtown and I can park my clunker! Woo-hoo! I may not be posting as frequently during this period of transition, readers, and I know you'll miss me! Rest assured I will be missing you, and writing as frequently as I can to keep you in the loop. Going to post a third excerpt from "The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story" tonight for your fictional delectation... Sweet dreams and delicious nightmares, until we meet again!

-Molly

"The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story" Part II

Cold wind on my face. Raindrops fall on my hot, bruised lips like tears. I smell mud and rain; something sweet and green. A hand- not my hand- on my shoulder.

"Oh fuck oh fuck..." his voice is trembling. Whatever he's seen, whatever it was, it must have been awful. He sounds so scared. "Are you all right? Say something," he begs. I don't know him. I would remember this voice, this warm hand. I do not know him. I look into his face, confused. Is he talking to me?

He's looking into my eyes, worried. He shakes my shoulder gently. "Hey...are you hurt?"

"What the fuck just happened?" My voice is rough and dusty. My tongue feels thick and foreign in my mouth. "Jesus." My voice is not my own. Disoriented, I look down at my hands. Red lacquered nails, long skinny fingers, wedding ring. They, at least, are familiar. I flex my fingers, absorbed by the sight of them moving along so obediently.

"Are you hurt?" he asks. Who is this guy? Why is he asking so many questions? I don't know him...do I?

"My face... I split my lip, I think." I lift one shaky hand to my poor, wounded mouth. It comes away slick and bloody, but all my teeth seem fine. The blood isn't much, but it's enought o turn my stomach. My lip feels too hot, too fat. It's already starting to swell. Shit.

"Your car went off the road. You hit a tree," he tells me, looking concerned. "Are you okay? Tell me where it hurts." His voice is gentle.

"My heart," I tell him. "I think it's broken. My husband...he's cheating on me again. We had a fight. Fucking bastard. Is he here?" I ask, confused.

"No. There was no one else in the car with you," he says, receiving the news of James' infidelity with a calm nod and a sorrowful smile. "Anything else? I could try to call an ambulance, if-"

"They can't help me. There's no cure for what I've got," I say in my strange new voice. It sounds harsh, streetwise. I like it. I light a cigarette, blow out smoke.

"Are you injured? Besides your heart?" he asks me, crouching down beside the open doot of the car to look at me more closely. I can see his dark curls, wet with rain; his soaked leather jacket, his sweet face.

Something about his face...so familiar...what is it? I know I've seen him before... somewhere...but where? And then I remember...

James' phone call comes just as I'm leaving work. He won't be home tonight, he says. So sorry. Poker night with the guys, over at Ray's house. Says he'll just crash there so he don't have to drive home drunk. And then I know. It's starting again. Motherfucker. The lies, the cheating. He's got another girlfriend, I know it. My guts know it even though my head doesn't want to believe he'd do it again.

"You pig!" I say, disgusted. "If you don't come home tonight, don't bother coming home at all."

"But, baby-" James says, trying to sweet-talk me.

"You bastard, fuck you. I'll see you at home."

"I can't," he says. "I already told Ray-"

"Bullshit. Come home. We need to talk," I tell him.

"Callie, I'll talk to you all you want tomorrow, but you're too upset right now. You're not making any sense-"

"Upset? I'm upset? Upset is for when I break a fingernail, James. This is a whole different ballpark!"

"Callie...honey...what's the big deal? It's just a night out with the guys."

"Oh you fucking liar. You know what, forget it. Don't come home tonight. Don't come home at all. Have fun with your new girlfriend, asshole."

"Callie, what-"

"I know what you're doing, James. I'm not a fucking idiot."

"You're completely paranoid," he says, sounding shaky. I busted him. I know it, and he knows it, too.

"I'm not paranoid, I'm right. I'll see you in divorce court, you prick." I hang up. I refuse to cry and smoke a cigarette instead. It will kill me to cry over James again, and so I bite my tears back and get in the car. It's raining. I leave town, and it starts to rain harder. We live up in the mountains, and the highway's always deserted this time of night. I pass a few cars heading back towards city limits, and then no one. The road is empty, a black void... and then I see the hitchhiker.

I remember it all; the puddle, the wild loopy skid; his white face looking back over his shoulder. A final, mortal thud. "Oh fuck." I am absolutely convinced that he must be dead. And if he's dead, I'm either seeing his ghost, or I'm dead, too. "I... did I hit you?" I ask him, for this boy bears the same face as the one in my memory. "Are you an angel?"


This excerpt from "The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story" is an original work of fiction by Molly Anderson-Childers. Copyright 2009. All rights reserved by the author.

Excerpt from "The Swan Maidens"

I fly with my sisters to a lonely lake deep in the forest. We go there to bathe at sunrise and sunset, when the golden light reveals that we are not merely swans; not entirely- rather, we are women with a secret. When we remove our golden necklaces and feather robes, and hang them from the oak trees that crouch low beside the water, it is clear that we are not only swans, but lovely golden-haired maidens under an enchantment.

Many years ago, our father- a stupid, if handsome, man- had angered a witch. Some stories say he tried to cheat her out of a few extra sous when selling a cow to her at market. Others maintain that he had spurned her affections in favor of a village girl- our mother. Whatever the reason, whatever the excuse, cursed is cursed. We were doomed to live a half-life, the seven of us sisters. During the day, we appeared to the world as swans, with long graceful necks and snowy feathers. We swam and learned to fly, to look for food with the other birds. But when the sun went down, we made our way to a lonely lake or pond to ready ourselves for the night. It was only after sunset that we were able to return to our human forms, removing the enchanted necklaces and cloaks that imprisoned us from dawn until dusk.

Some nights, we went home to our parents, but these reunions were always teary and exhausting, and we could not stay there long without causing harsh words between our parents about whose fault it was that their lovely daughters had been turned into birds. As we grew older, we took to staying away from our family's sad little farm. We built a hut in the woods, far from the village, and set up housekeeping there.

We had begun life as normal human girls, you see. The witch's kindness-or her cruelty- had cursed us to a half-life, with one foot in the world of the humans, and one in the world of the birds. We could never mate, nor bear children- for who would have us? None of the boys in the village wished to court a girl who spent her days as a bird. The very idea was laughable. If they happened to see us out at night, walking the streets of the village, they threw rocks and hurled insults. Their cruel words hurt worse than any stone that ever bruised my flesh...

This story is an original work of fiction by Molly Anderson-Childers. Copyright 2009. Use of this work, in whole or in part, is not permitted without written consent by the author.

This story was inspired by my recent researches into the Swan Maidens of Scandinavian and German lore; most notably, the Wunschelwybere of Germany. While writing an article for Creativity Portal about the Muses of the Air, I came across the strange story of the Swan Maidens and knew I had to explore further, with a story of my own.

Excerpt from "The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story"

I am driving home in the rain when I see the hitchhiker. Visibility's shit- sheets of rain slash at the car, obscuring him from view until the last second, and then he appears amongst the trees, trudging along the shoulder of the highway. He's hunched over, hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket. He doesn't even bother to put out his thumb as my car approaches- looks like he's given up on finding a ride tonight. His hopeless trudge- head down, hands in pockets- hurts me somehow, in the place my heart used to be.

Jesus, I think. He's just a kid. He looks like he's cold...

I'm wondering if I should stop and offer him a ride when the car hits a puddle and starts to slide. Hydroplaning. That feeling in my stomach like being at the top of a roller-coaster, right before the drop. My battered Ford Taurus loops crazily across the skittery surface of the road. I haul on the steering wheel, try to steer out of the skid. The passenger-side tires drop off the pavement and sink into the mud and gravel of the soft shoulder, where the kid was walking only a second ago.

Where is he? Where is he? I don't want to hit him. Can't see...

The steering wheel twists in my hands like something alive. I'm screaming, cursing, honking the horn, slamming on the brakes- all at once. All of a sudden, I see the surprised white O of his face in the headlights' glare. He sees me, sees the car, turns to run. I twist the wheel in one last effort to stop this terrible, terrible thing from happening. The car responds, but too late. Too late. I feel the bumper strike something solid and my face slams into the steering wheel, splitting my lip open. My seatbelt snaps, locking into place across my chest, my lap. It hurts, it hurts- not like a slap but like a bear hug, squeezing me too tight.

The world fades out in a shimmering wave of silver and blue. I ache inside. He was just a kid, I think, with a tearing sense of regret. And then everything goes grey, then black. I surrender to the void, feeling the hot sticky blood run down my face.


This post is an excerpt "The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story." Stay tuned for more of this story- and others- at http://www.addictivefiction.blogspot.com
"The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story" is an original work of fiction by Molly Anderson- Childers. All rights reserved by author. Copyright 2009.
If you are an agent or editor wishing to connect with Ms. Anderson-Childers regarding representation or publication of this work, please send an email to stealingplums@yahoo.com.

The Joys of Imperfection: Come As You Are!

Who Can Define Beauty? What Is The Essence of Perfection?

The above picture, in technical terms, is closer to "perfection," closer to our traditional ideals of beauty...the wildflower is in focus, and centered perfectly within the frame...but I prefer the second snapshot, featured below.

While I was trying to take a picture of this flower, it nodded and swayed gently in the wind. The resulting photograph is slightly blurred, imperfect...and infinitely more alive and engaging.

Today I want to write about starting imperfectly- simply showing up, and coming to the page or the canvas as you are. I have realized that you can't wait for the perfect time to begin a writing project, to have a baby, to change jobs, to leave the man who's done you wrong. There is no perfect time, and you'll just get older waiting for it.



Is there something you've been putting off until the time is right? Have you decided that you can't start that novel you've been wanting to write until you wash the dishes, pay a few bills, clean the house, change your life? What if I told you that right now is the right time? In any case, it's the only time we really have. The past is gone; the future is out of our reach. I don't care if you've got three weeks' worth of laundry piled up in a heap in front of your door. For one moment, for one day, drop everything and just show up on the page. Give your creative work your first priority, and your most urgent and focused attention.



For a long time- too long- I waited for "the right time" to start this blog to share my fiction with the world, and create a unique resource for other writers. One day, I realized the right time wasn't just going to show up and announce itself with trumpets blaring... I had to meet the muses halfway and show up, ready to work, with knots in my hair and paint on my hands; imperfect and willing to risk further mistakes, errors, and imperfections for the simple joy of getting started.



The second photo- one of my favorites- is an illustration of my point. What is not perfect is often beautiful- not in spite of its innate imperfections, but because of them. It may be out of focus, and a little blurry around the edges, but its movement, color and unexpected luminous beauty can still take my breath away.

Don't wait another day to dust off those dreams half-forgotten, the songs never sung. Pick up the pen, and begin, right now, just as you are, joyous mistakes, bloopers, imperfections and all!

Imperfectly Yours,

Molly

Addictive Fiction... An Invitation to the Dance

Welcome, rabid readers and fabulous fans! I will be sharing tidbits of my most tantalizing fictional offerings here for your delectation. This is a map of my journey as a writer, and I hope to chart my progress here. I'll also be helping you develop characters that jump off the page, overcome writer's block, create believable plots and storylines, and more!

If you are interested in a writing/creativity consultation, please contact me for more information about working with me one-on-one to improve your writing and editing skills. You may reach me via email at: stealingplums@yahoo.com .

Check out my blog at www.stealingplums.blogspot.com for juicy photos and more creative inspiration!

You can also visit this webpage for a guide to my creativity-inducing articles online now at Creativity Portal, a Writer's Digest Best Web Site...
www.creativity-portal.com/bc/molly.childers