whispering

whispering, whispering, I am searching for sleep, but there is all this whispering,
I am walking in the garden
surrounded by whispering, whispering
all this whispering,
it goes on and on till I grab my pen, pulling part of it down to page,
thus lightened the rest floats away,
but then
again,
another line of whispering begins.

over and over
I must capture part of it, to release it, to release me
We must fully touch, before we can part

I haven't been working on writing Echo, well not directly, indirectly I most definitely have been, every sight and sound in the garden clamours to be put in, and everything leads to something else, or means something else, so my notebook and I have gotten quite chummy once more. So while I am not working on the part I feel I should be working on in the draft (the Letters), still I am sneaking up on all parts of it, surely closing in on it, though making quite a large circle around it first.

Thursday night.....I read a post by Vesper, about blooming lilacs
and off my mind went happily floating along in a dream of wearing a lilac gown, but then some swans swam by, got out of the water, and pushed their beaks through the center of the lilac bushes and as they did, the swans transformed into maidens, and the lilacs lifted up and settled down around them as lovely white ballgowns.

Then I decided to visit Minx just for a moment (because I've scarcely visited her in months), but I was so tired I could barely make out the post, there was a beautiful sad sculpture, and words about love, and loss, and the importance of love ( at least I think so). And then I went to bed. Only I didn't go to sleep, because of all the whispering, on and on the whimsical idea morphed, turning into a story, and soon revealing itself to have tones of sadness, an unexpected fairytale, a love story with a sad but loving and hopeful ever-after. Friday night when I went to bed, I bid my surroundings to be quiet and let me fall asleep and they did, but I woke up very early, and though fully intending to roll over and sleep more, the whispering started again, spinning its web on and on, I got my notebook out and started writing stuff down, and when the flow stopped, I put it down and rolled over to go to sleep, but then more would come, and I would get the notebook again. On and on this scenario went on, till finally I said, I am not getting that notebook again, I'll remember and put stuff in later, if a whisper could roll its eyes and tap its foot at me, this whispering surely did, it would have none of that, "Oh no. I know you, you'll forget. You'll do it now". So I never fell back to sleep. I have a page and a half typed from first night. And from second night/morning, counting each side of page, handwritten, I now have added 15 and half pages, (so 17) where several days ago there were none, there was no hint, no idea, no searching for an idea, and then two blog visits, and now I know this story that didn't exist Friday before 10 PM. I know how it starts, I know what happens in the middle, I know how it ends, I know characters, and meanings, and some stretches of dialogue, and scenes.
I have title-Fountain of Swans
I have age group-I know it is a young adult story ( that is a big deal for me, for usually I am unclear on the age group)
But quite honestly I am not at all sure what to do about it. I don't know why it came and plunked itself right down in the middle of my working on Echo's draft. (or more precisely my working on my garden and thinking about working on Echo's draft)

Still I like the whispering. This winter was quite silent. I didn't like the silence, the emptiness, the nothingness. I like the company of the whispering. And...it helps me to believe, in me, in the idea of a writer me, in the idea of me as a writer. Because the whispering comes from elsewhere and requires listening, which is quite different (for me) from daydreaming (which I believe everyone can and does do), there is of course much work with writing, but that comes later, in the beginning, and tucked here and there through-out the writing, it is about listening. And I like to believe people who don't write are not tuned in to this whispering, can't hear it. That they aren't told stories, floating in, through the air of an open window, to land like a shower of cherry blossom petals before them on their desks. I like to believe this, because it helps me to believe that I hear the whispering for a reason, and that the reason is because I am meant to write them down, that I am meant to write.

Whether or not that is true, it seems to me, it must be true that they come to me for some reason, and if it isn't to share with others, well then at least they are meant to be shared with me (Or told to me, or discovered by me, from whence they came) , so I look to the meanings behind the stories, and find it interesting, Echo, Fresh Oranges, Fountain of Swans, the stories are different but the themes over-lap. What am I being told over and over? What am I telling me?