Morning's Light Part 2

[Authors Note]-this is just a smattering of sentences I have in mind to use for the full piece. I must have stared for a good long while trying to put them together and fill them in with an artistic fashion. For some reason the words won't work for me today, so its better to just get them out rather then forget. I can edit them later, when the inspiration strikes.The bracketed comments beside the sentences show what my thoughts are as I'm writing, and what my plans are to form the words into a piece. I'm going to have to make a second part to this so you can see how it transforms into something I want to send out.  The fragments are pasted without commentary for your perusal. Any suggestions are greatly appreciated.

Piece with commentary:
They wiped the road from their faces and stared in wonder at the place.
The diner stood in a cloud of dust. [I like this as it is. quite satisfied having it stand alone, like the diner]
Inside were mismatched plates and faces, but the coffee was hot. [the rhythm of this sentence is off, going to have to find another phrase to even it out]
She leaned over it all and whispered to him with the fire in her eyes
Lets do everything we should have done. Lets throw our fears in their faces. [noticing that I have used face too much, going to have to find another word]
He leads her to the kitchen and against the steel and stone they press each other close.
The pie juices run freely down their thighs. [more exposition is required, the reader will be very confused . . . perhaps the piece should be more surreal from the beginning?]

In the thickness of the dark her arm coils around his heart . They both lie awake, unknown to one another. The arm begins to shake with silent sobs. He does not stir. [there's a breach in time here that will need to be filled ]

In the later years of life they will fear they have tread on shallow waters. 

Piece without commentary

They wiped the road from their faces and stared in wonder at the place.

The diner stood in a cloud of dust.

Inside were mismatched plates and faces, but the coffee was hot. 

She leaned over it all and whispered to him with the fire in her eyes

Lets do everything we should have done. Lets throw our fears in their faces. 

He leads her to the kitchen and against the steel and stone they press each other close. 

The pie juices run freely down their thighs.

In the thickness of the dark her arm coils around his heart . They both lie awake, unknown to one another. The arm begins to shake with silent sobs. He does not stir. 

In the later years of life they will fear they have tread on shallow waters. 

Morning's Light

The grey lit up behind fluttering lids. Slowly they open. The morning is blue and fresh, but there is no joy. She looks over at him, form weighed with life and reason he stares down the stainless road, the lines on his face are still there. But despite everything, his hand finds hers.
They do not speak.
They had been driving all night, and would continue to drive.
They still wait for someone to tell them where they are going.
Behind them is a trail of grime and sweat and fruitless dreams.
Ahead is only the green of the land, the coal of the highway, and the hope in their hearts.

On becoming a big kid . . . for real.

It's hard.

Personal Statements. Resumes. Curriculum Vitae. Masterpiece (make sure its at least 30 pgs of solid awesome). Assignments I don't know what to write about and decisions I don't know if I'm ready to make

There's a difference between knowing how to do something and actually doing it. I know how to apply for college. I know how to apply for jobs. The struggle comes when I have to sit down with my entire life beside me and somehow spill it onto the paper in words that sound both creative and professional, witty and evocative.

How do you do that? My life is not so interesting, or so they say, or, rather, noone has asked so I have never thought to reflect on it and try to put it into story form. My life has melted away behind me like words on a dry erase board. I'm sure if I turned the dial back to actually look at them they wouldn't be very interesting to begin with.
Dammit, I'm going to have to look anyway, because They want to know. The future is becoming such an arduous thing. I'm starting to think I should just stay right here. Frozen in time. typing my silly little words on this silly little blog.

I know what this is, this is the dreamer in me (the one who has had control all along) throwing a temper tantrum because the artist in me actually wants to make something out of the mush I've accumulated all these years. . . Wow, interesting realization. . . I guess she's ranted herself out.

I need to do some yoga and meditation for real, lack of centralization is making this process harder.

On meeting a word count

This has never been a problem before, but this semester I have found my writing to be much more succinct. Perhaps I have been narrowing the writing as I'm going, perhaps my brain is simply not choosing to put down that witty yet poignant adjective that would stretch the sentence just so.

Perhaps it is nothing to worry about. After thinking about why my pieces are coming out just at the assigned length or just shy I started rereading the works. Again, nothing sparks up and says "wait, this is something that needs to be fixed-no, no, lets add another scene in here . . ." In actuality, I don't think this is a bad thing. I'm not going to panic-I'm just going to hand it in.

So I'm looking at MFA programs, and most require 15-20 sometimes even 30 pages of sample writing. If your someone like me who's longest work is 12 pages at best then I hear your heart drop with mine. But. And in grad school searches there is always a but. Ira Sukrungruang, my fiction teacher and blogger of "The Clever Title", says that if you have 15 pages of solid work then short change them intentionally.

Don't lengthen a work simply because you have to meet a quota. You will end up strangling it. At the risk of sounding cliche, think of your piece as a flower you are growing from seed . . . No, wait, don't. It does sound too cliche.

My advice to the writer who is struggling is to just relax. Finish the piece as you want it to originally be finished and go back to it at a later date. If there is still no inner voice that jumps out at you with more that can be done then let the piece sit on the table.

In short Speak louder. Not longer.

I bet your thinking there's a dead horse in this room Im sitting in by now. Your probably right.

On the future

If you dropped a marble into the pool of my life I don't think that you would see ripples
You would see an explosion of thread and color.

My life is a path spreading out in many different directions, each one so different from the other yet so appropriate. I could choose to go to grad school. I could choose to get a regular job here. I could choose to write,write, write and try to get published. I could pursue Makeup Artistry. I could go to Makeup Artistry School. I could get a second Bach degree in technical writing and make more money.

I could get married and have kids.

I could sell everything I own and move to Europe for a year.

Watching the threads leap and cling to my heart fills me with excitement. Fills me with anticipation. Fills me with a sense of urgency because all of the threads are whispering to start down one of these paths. . . Which one?  For surely only one will grant me happiness. Will grant me the answer to life's questions. And noone wants to make the mistake of going down the wrong path.

And you know what? I choose all of them.

On love . . .

I've always held things at an arms length, its just been safest that way. But arms get tired every once in a while. Its been a long time, and I still feel that recoil when you press close and ask to be let in. I still retreat a little to the back of my mind where no matter how hard you try-you or any of the others will never hurt me.

Now, I've watched many grow together and I've heard the sounds they make when they rip apart and I'll tell you love-I still dream about it.
And, I've heard of love existing in this world, and sometimes I see it in the sides of my eyes but never with it fully naked in front of me, perhaps this is because people are private about their most sacred treasures. I'm rambling.

We watched your old soul walk towards another man with a ring on his finger. You smiled. You cried. We froze together in happiness for our friend, and not just because it was cold. We watched her stand in the center of all our eyes and press her face close to his and smile. Their lips moved. She laughs.

Another day I would have told you this never will happen to us. I would have dropped my arms and ran, flapping into the dark. But that day, with your face pressed to mine. My smile spread to the whole of my body.

I tried to breath you in.

I think my arms are weary. I think its time to let you in. I think its time. I think its time. I think its time.