"Dragons aren't real!" They scream at me from the sidewalk. Half a dozen of them, standing there, bare hands stuffed into pockets, shivering in light jackets, jeans, and running shoes. Too "cool", I guess, to dress appropriately for our cold and deeply snowy weather.
I ignore them and keep working. Already I have eight snowballs, each as tall as me, lined up more or less in a row. I pack snow in and around them to form a long, sinuous body. Next I add a carefully tapering tail, barbed at the end, and wings laid back along the sides of the body. Then a ridge of spikes down the middle of the back, followed by fore and hind limbs with clawed toes. I mould scales all the way from tail to head. The details of the head take longer and much more careful sculpting. The brow with a pair of curved horns. Giant, heavy lidded eyes. Tooth filled snout. Lines of whiskers drawn carefully back along the face. I'm too focused on the work to be cold. Too engaged to notice when those on the sidewalk grow bored and walk away, laughing among themselves. At last the sculpture is good enough. I dig the scrap of paper from my pocket. Unfolding it, I smooth out the creases and crinkles. The symbol is as clear as when I copied it from the huge, old, leatherbound tome Grandfather keeps hidden in his study. He's allowed me to read it, a few pages at a time, under his strict supervision. Now, painstakingly, I copy the symbol onto the brow of my snow dragon. Then it's done and I step back to survey my handiwork. It's impressive, if I do say so myself. "Hey! Kid!" Frowning, I turn toward the street to see a man holding a professional looking camera. He's waving enthusiastically. "That's awesome work! Did you do it all by yourself?" "Yessir!" I can't help a proud grin. "Would you mind if I take some pictures of it? For a local interest piece." "Sure." I stuff the scrap of paper into my pocket. Then I step back, away from the snow sculpture. "Ed Trake, photographer," He walks across the much trampled snow of the open field to hand me a business card for the small local free paper. He has a laminated press ID on a cord around his neck which says the same thing. "My editor will love this." He adds as he holds up the camera and begins taking shots. He circles around to capture the dragon from all angles, "How long did this take you?" I glance at the sky which is beginning to darken, "All afternoon." "Just today?" Ed's surprise is clear, "Fast work for something this big." I shrug it off. When I'm focused on a project, I lose time and nothing distracts me. He takes one more picture and gives me a smile, "Thank you. This really is awesome work." Then he's gone and I have to run. The sky is nearing full dark and Grandmother is a stickler for punctuality, especially for meals.
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Wanting to write is one thing. Over the years I've heard so many people say they want to write something. Usually some story. But there's a world of difference between the desire to do a thing and actually making the time to do it. And yes, time has to be made or designated for things. Hoping to 'find' the time for anything means said thing isn't likely to happen.
In terms of making time for writing, I've hear all kinds of suggestions. One popular one is to get up earlier in the day. Some people can... I've never been able to. If I'm writing at five or six or seven in the morning, it's because I've been awake writing all night. Experience has consistently proven that I cannot get up earlier than eight or nine in the morning without paying a toll in terms of my mental health. Another popular suggestion, and I guess it works for some, is to set aside ten, fifteen, or twenty minutes ( or a little more) and write in sprints. Again, I can't. I know others who can. The majority of my writing time is either before my family is awake for the day. Which isn't hard with a homeschooled, night owl kiddo (she gets her school work done so I don't see any reason to fight with it) and a husband who works graveyards. Or after my kiddo has been sent to her bed (if not to sleep) and my husband is napping before his work shift. Or even after my husband is gone to work and my kiddo is supposedly asleep, although too many nights of that in a row doesn't do my mental health any good either. That said, if it's important enough, a person will make the time for it, one way or another.
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AuthorAlexandra A. 'Lexa' Cheshire is the author of numerous novels and short stories published through Howling Wolf Books. Lexa is a wife, mother, cat owner, and music lover. Archives
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