It looks now like it won’t be until Monday that my mood shall swing back to cheery and perky–the me you all are more used to, no?
Where would a creative writer be without moods and passion, without the stolen honey that swarms with bees (by the way, have you ever seen a real swarm of bees? It’s one of the weirdest things I’ve ever seen in my life), without reaching for the balloon that threatens to explode. It is a totally necessary element to creativity as far as I can see, and keeps me close to the computer when touching either of its extremes. Even when I walk the straight and narrow I must believe that something’s hiding underneath the yellow line. We must always balance on the edge; the all important edge. And even if we fall, well, there’s a story in that too.
The pendulum swingeth. Hope it doesn’t knock me into the pit. But what is down there? Hissing snakes or alligators? Or maybe just a desk and chair, paper and a pencil.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
I have seen a swarm of bees, and find their unity impressive. I also have a story to tell that includes the very room I am sitting in. We call it our study. It is a cozy room situated on the north side of the house with a floor level hearth framed in white colonial paneling. The room is enclosed by two 15 panel french doors, one providing entrance from the east off the dining room, the other from the south where the front hall and staircase meet.
Told by the previous owners of the house, they came home one day to find a swarm of bees hovering over the chimney and slowly taking possesion of the room. They actually had to call the fire department in to gather them together and relocate them. To this day, I find yellow jackets who somehow find their way into the room. This occurs mostly in the spring and fall and much more frequently than any other rooms in the house.
It is a well-known and indisputed fact that there are a greater proportion of manic-depressives among creative fields than among the general populace.
Whether this be a result of their dour moods or frenetic productivity on teh other side, or yet again some other cause is to credit, that’s debateable, but the dour mood itself never ended anyone’s career. That is, unless they killed themselves.
Uh, yeah, Ben.