By Journal to Inle Lake, Burma

Today my characters are taking me on a tour of Inle Lake, Burma or Myanmar as it is officially known. But someone is having memory issues. I think that might be the writer. What did the drive into Inle Lake feel like? I remember it as amazing. But the picture in my mind is not so clear.

Then I pull out that trusty travel journal. Written in penmanship that would give my early teachers hives, but the cramped and uneven writing is more a product of place rather than skill. Written on planes, in airports, in the backseat of cabs, it’s a window into the lives of another people and another country - a snapshot in time from the viewpoint of a voyeur.

I can see clearly the water buffalo that seemed to look right at me as he stood morosely in the field. I remember the speedometer of the cab settled so far left I thought it might be impossible to drive any slower. And then the transport truck appeared from nowhere on the narrow road meant only for one vehicle and it was a relief to know that the driver didn’t have a heavy foot as he pulled over and the truck passed so close that I could feel the heat from his engine through our open window. It was a truck filled to capacity with produce and passengers, they rode inside and outside wherever they could find a place. I remember the woman who waved before stepping down the wooden steps to the water filled ditch where she began to wash clothes. I can hear the shrieks of the little boys who ran naked, splashing in water filled ditches, their laughter echoing over the fields. And closer to town the ditches opened up into swampy grassland and the occasional fishing boat, and always the inevitable water buffalo.

What would a stranger’s travel journal say about me and the place I call home?

Ryshia


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Crazy

It's been a crazy month. We all get them I'm sure. Months when everyone wants something and they all want it now. When the peace of that last vacation seem zillions of miles away.

So how do you deal with all the craziness? I know some people colour code file folders and fill their calendars with reminders of all kinds. But I find that just complicates everything. Besides, I'm trying to get my brain fit and I heard a little remembering goes a long way.

Although, I have to admit a bit of good in each system. After all I can only remember so much. So I try to incorporate both systems - calendars and memory. But even that hit overload this month. Apparently the dog may not be attending his agility class as I forgot to follow up on a tentative commitment - oops! Sorry Rourke.

Prairie Deadlines

It's the season of brown snow, where rivers of mud mesh with rotting ice and snow. It's a great season for anyone with a complete set of waterproof gear and those under the age of ten.

What's interesting during this season is how anyone male seems to have a fascination with storm drains. Don't ask, I don't get it. But every year finds a group of the neighborhood guys hunched over the storm drain trying to get the water to drain off the street. The kids splash in the rivers that flow in the newly created channels and the guys create more channels and monitor the drain as if by diverting their attention for even a second would cause the whole thing to clog up and we'd all drown in the backwash.

And it's not just the guys. Everyone is so desperate to hurry spring along that the other day I saw a woman attempting to use a garden rake to take down a very large snowbank.

Yes, I have seen the pictures of those of you flaunting spring tulips and crocuses. Here, spring is just a bit slower. So without a tulip in sight and nary a tree budding - that season of rebirth is upon us. The thing of it is, out here on the prairies winter loves us and right now, despite what the calendar might say, it's only offering a reflection of spring.


But when spring finally arrives it will be in a rush - one minute we will be griping about brown snow and the next we'll be rushing to get the flower beds planted. And summer - well same thing all over again. Except for winter, every season is under a tight deadline. So you'd think I'd be used to deadlines.

Despite being a child of the prairies - being used to the limits of spring, summer and fall - a deadline is a rather an intimidating thing. Maybe because I think of it rather like the end of winter. You always think you have lots of time and yet in your gut you know that one day you will wake up and the snow is gone, and the robins will be singing "times up".

And please someone tell me what is the fascination with men and storm drains?

Ryshia
www.ryshiakennie.com
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There's Blood on the Page

Doesn't matter how much you love them and how perfect they all seem, sometime you have to take a knife to them and make them bleed. Breathe people - it's a story of which I speak. I know I've spoken of blood before but editing - well it cuts close to home, to the bone. The guts that I thought created the story are being removed at the request of someone far wiser than I and something unexpected is happening in the process.

A romance is emerging and a man is coming forward from where he was buried beneath issues. Everything that I think will rip a tear in the heart of the story instead reveals unanticipated surprises. At least that's what I'm finding this go around as I streamline a story in ways I never expected.

What surprises hit you this week?

Ryshia
ww.ryshiakennie.com
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Diverted or Just Distracted?

It's interesting how quickly a plan can lay in shards at your feet. This week's plan was to focus on the current story, a romantic suspense set in China.

Instead, an interview request takes me to another time and another story but more importantly it's difficult to flip that creative switch from one story right back to another. But the plan is completely diverted later in the week by an unexpected event. Another story needs attention and for the next while the path has truly diverged.

To regroup I clear off the whiteboard and consider a long walk in the still "very fresh" air. Yes, spring is limping along slower than the most ancient of geriatrics. And that too is distracting. I consider that by some fluke spring has been indefinitely diverted. There should be tulips, less snow and more water puddles in plus zero temperatures. But despite noises about spring and the plethora of lawn furniture and brightly coloured accessories out in stores it's still looking a lot like winter.



Distracted? Diverted? Make another plan!


Ryshia
www.ryshiakennie.com
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Lost in the Jungle

I'm lost in the jungle of what began as a good idea. It's that murky beginning where the spark that inspired the story is now blurred by the wasteland that currently harbors both plot and characters. On days like this I want to pitch the whole story back into the muck and tell them (the characters) where they can take their little problems. But then one will rise waist deep in muck and scream at me that their problems aren't so trivial and they need to be dealt with. And maybe if I'd just listen I'd get that I was pushing the plot in totally the wrong direction. "Keep digging," she, as yet unnamed heroine, shouts.

Yes, that's the beginning of a story and an emerging plot. A great idea that gets derailed time and again by logic until one day, the eureka moment and the story steams ahead. I keep telling myself that as I toil through the early stages. In the meantime there is endless coffee and blurred vision. It's a tough place to be after emerging from the joys and contagion of a completed story. But the story I loved, the one that preceded this one, will soon be replaced by a story I love even more. I know this but in the early stages, as I wait for the characters to emerge in three dimensional glory - well all I can say is "more coffee".

Ryshia
www.ryshiakennie.com
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