Winds
When I was like 9 or 11 or 14 (or all three, to be honest) I attempted my first novel (and by "first" I also mean last and by "last" I also mean I never finished it) — but I did this thing that I still do where I got the title in my head first and also knew how I wanted it to start and to end but I didn’t really have an idea for a plot (small detail) so it just kinda whirlygigged ‘round mah brainhole, to be titled "Winds," and the first line would be “and [lowercase, very important] violently against the wall blew the wind,” and then it would end mid-sentence so that you could pick it up anywhere and read it circularly like it was a never-ending story and if the plotline was Atreyu it didn’t just nearly drown in the swamp, it fully evaporated into the atmosphere with no solid material at all like one of those little mini tornadoes that pick up leaves down alleyways and then everything falls flat and yes those swirlythings last like four seconds but quite frankly so did each very sad attempt at "Winds" by Vanessa Childers (née Richetti).
My mom still has that draft, hurriedly penciled on yellow legal pads (and, allegedly, a hard disk somewhere), and now I’m realizing I didn’t fail at writing it, I just kept trying to write something like a novel or, like, SOMETHING NOVEL, which unfortunately requires elements like plot and forward motion and perhaps logical thought, three concepts I have historically approached with a sort of loose, interpretive energy, and instead of realizing I could just write the almostness, the windyparts, the swirl itself — the thing where nothing really happens and yet everything quietly shifts ever-so-slightly out of place — I just went ahead and assumed I was doing it all wrong, waiting for some kind of narrative Falcor to swoop in and save the whole thing when really the trick — the secret, the life hack — is that that sweet ole sleepy dogbird does, in fact, save the day/horse, just not in the way I thought, because he doesn’t drain the swamp or fix the storyline, he just lifts you up outta it entirely and suddenly you’re airborne, moving through sky instead of wannabe-wind mud, and if you’re a cool music geek and have seen Mr. Holland’s Opus, you know the “play the sunset” scene? Yeah, this is that.
Play the sunset. Write the sky.
