A way over yonder...

Way over yonder
There a place that I know
where I can find shelter
from all suffering and woe
Now I know that when I get there

The first thing I'll see
Is the son shining golden
Shining right down on me.

And the sweet tasting good life
is so easily found
and I'll stand up proudly
with true peace of mind.
Carol King

Rise and shine!
This was the first thing to come into my song this day. Yesterday I was dancing in the living room taking pure delight in Him and in the provision of my books back. I so missed having all my books in boxes.

When I was a little girl my step dad would not allow me to touch his books or book case. I would get cussed out pretty bad if I got caught.
I love having lots of books to touch and read through. Most of them are all reference books about this world we live in and the life that is on it.

I have mostly all reference volumes.

I also have two books that I have written. However those were some time back let go of. I am a writer. Yet I thought that perhaps that just might be a bad thing to be. For there is a huge risk in it and there are so many confusing messages about being an author. I wrote a novel a few years ago with a dear friend. I thought that perhaps I was just trying on a suit (of writer) like playing a role. When I heard so much negativity from so many judgmental folks (regarding other writers) that I cowered away.

Writing is a very vulnerable craft. It is also one that takes such great responsibility. It is sorta like being a teacher in that it should not be taken lightly.
Yesterday holding and touching my lovely books I woke up. I saw my manuscript and the forgotten story within it and I sang like a lone song bird on a mountain top looking to find one to sing with. I had such a one and then thinking I had not the right or e the desire to follow that dream I bolted. So sorry to her my dear friend . She published, and became so consumed, that the struggle she then encountered with the mews frightened me away into other pursues. I do not want the torment of "writer" and thought perhaps it would be inevitable if I continued. Fear caused me to bolt and to dis-allow the flow. The duty of tending to the housekeeping of the story was a big task too. I have never read many novels .My heart has always been for the reference volumes.

For me to be a novelist...well, I did not feel worthy.
I did not want to take away the glory of another. I did not want to be ashamed of doing it wrong. I got the notion that being a writer would be looked down on spoken down on and demised. So rather than that I simply let go of it. Yesterday however it reached out to me. Silently from the dusty shelf and the dog eared page and invited me home for a feast.

Saying come bring home all your dirty laundry and all your wows, joys thoughts and experiences. Come home and rest a while, return to me for I am a friend.
How a task can become of a thing of passion...call it editing. Editing is a task master that suffers so many writers. I did not want to endure the pains of it. It is not really worth it... I justified. I can not really call myself a writer. I tried on the suit and did not enjoy the fit at that editing stage. So I took it off put it first on the shelf ,...then packed it away with the moth balls of hope that some day it may fit me better. Some garments need alterations or they will never fit. I suppose that is where the editor comes in.
Well I am dusting off the suit and reclaiming its value. If anyone can,... by taking it in at the seams, or let it out to fit better....well may it me me.