I missed you last night! Daniel called me at the library while I was there working at the book discussion. Tess was ill, and he wanted me to stop by. Long story short, I spent the night at their house without ever making it home. Everyone seems to be doing better now, but I’m hoping I don’t catch this horrid bug!
What was even more funny, was that I had pre-written last night’s post during the day out in my studio. Our discussion book was Deep West: A Literary Tour of Wyoming (affiliate link). Throughout, the question was raised about “What Makes a Wyoming Writer?”
My scattered thoughts:
Reading about Western Writers of Wyoming. Names sifted into my brain through years of reading and living in the Cowboy State. Impressed by paragraphs and phrases I envy. Knowing I have tiny bits of a storyteller in me, but unable to pull forth a lengthy tale – interrupted by Life (“The bulls got out, could you… ?”), my attention span (I need to finish this project, that present), and a family full and blessed.
The storyteller voice echoes in my head bouncing from the rimrocks and cliffs of memory, unable to grasp and hang on tightly. My father could entertain with a story. A grandfather, long gone, known for his weaving of tales. I ache to ask another grandfather of “The Little People”, bedtime threats for my mother. Wanting stories that won’t reveal themselves, I’m left with my own tales. I seek them, but more often, they appear on their own. Broken scenes in my mind…
* I want to share how brittle cold a bit can be at 0˚, clutched in your hand. Puffy breath seeks to warm it before a frosty muzzle reaches your way. A headstall is slipped over equine ears, and the snaffle slid into place.
* I want to share that distinctive rattle-clap of loose horse trailer doors shimmying down a two track.
* The boot squeak of snow steps.
* The fuzzy enthusiasm of cowdog eagerness.
* The whistle of bird wings overhead, the intent look of antelope.
* The rip of grass as cattle graze.
* The jingle of tack at a trot.
* The leather language of saddles.
* The meanness of a too-tight barbed wire gate.
All these come to me in pictures, pictures that I seek not only to write about but that inspire me to create art as well.
A braided rein.
A crafted necklace… share who I am, what I love, gifts of time and patience.
I am not a Wyoming Author, but I am a Wyoming creator, sharing what I can, when I can, in the many formats I can. My focus is on the giving – hoping at some time blessings will continue to flow to the receiver… perhaps, with their own story to tell…