Tilting at Windmills

I did something today I have not done in quite some time. Sitting on a subway train, I took out my tiny notebook and mechanical pencil and I started writing.

It wasn't random. It followed the last scene I wrote for the novella, Magical Stilettos.

The man standing over me seemed confounded, as I saw his expression on the glass door across from us. The mechanical pencil threw him for a loop, “It's a pen yet it is a pencil!” Deep down I think he felt an urge to point at me and accuse me of sorcery.

I started writing this as a lighthearted narrative, now it is turning into what may be a study of perception and reality.

There are some uncomfortable topics to cover: evil; slavery; emotional, physical and sexual abuse. And suddenly this is not as funny as I assume it'd be...

Worlds collide and I still do not know where it is going. But once I started to identify the topics at hand, I also realized that there are huge themes that want to come out and inhabit the page.

Of course, once you come to terms with this, the next realization is that you must do the topics justice. None of these ideals should be treated tritely. 

And then horror starts to set in: Do I have it in me to immerse myself in something so big? Is this something that can be properly dealt with in a novella? Are you freaking insane?

I have no particular desire to delve too deeply into any of these topics, but I don't see how I have much of a choice if that is what the story is about. I just transcribe for the Muse, I know my place.

Knowing my place in Real Life also should propel the rest of the writing. I am feeling slightly disenfranchised at the moment. This feeling that saddens and angers me should be the perfect fuel. 

Aren't tears and bitterness the inspiration to centuries of tortured art?

As long as I'm going to be moody, why not channel it into writing before I can start obsessing about it and fermenting into bitterness. Titling at windmills is a better way to go.

I just want the Universe to know that sending me lemons will not result in lemonade, just because that is what is expected proverbially. I will simply squeeze it into a vodka cocktail! (The fact that I do not have any vodka is but a minor detail, so shut up, Powers That Be. I have an imagination. I can pretend.)

Tomorrow, I have an appointment in the city. I will travel by subway -- in rain and probably snow (when will it finally end?!). I hope I am again compelled to take out the little notebook and mechanical pencil and confuse kids who've never read cursive.

Now if I could find a balance, even if slightly perverse, to add humor to this horror I will be a happy writer. (A happy writer? The ultimate fantasy!)