Only weeks ago, I resolved to find magic in this New Year. It landed last night, courtesy of an unexpected gift.
The weekend crisis du jour sent DH and I on the road. A new lamp shade beckoned.
In the store, the colorful box screamed, “All this color! You know you want me!” Curious, is it not, that all the box’s colors match my novel characters? Can you identify the six shades?
Looming larger, this toy offers a different kind of road trip—straight down memory lane. But in my 70’s teen days, I never owned a Lava Lamp.
Having one up‐close, I’ve realized a Lava lamp is essentially an electric candle, sans wick, parked inside a glass bottle. It works when a glob of bottled wax gets heated, rises then dances inside glass under illuminated by a tiny light bulb.
This mutant look compliments reality. Nothing’s ever perfect as it’s born.
All applicable for what’s been an ongoing funky new year. Maybe now as we begin week number five, it’s full‐on reboot time? Isn’t that what last week’s Full Moon with a Wolf SuperBlood twist teased? Saying goodbye to the past and moving forward with gusto, finally free?
Technically, my inner feminist says this should be Lava Woman. I squinted to identify relevant body parts.
It becames that: It. Or SkullScoliosisRump. Alien doesn’t fit because this image resembles no creature I’ve seen in the best (and worst) sci‐fi flicks.
Still, it’s perfect, mimicking change with scary precision. Is change ever easy to figure out?
This unfolding lava world reminds me of watching last week’s eclipse. Shadows and colors changing on the moon as a memorable lunar evening reveals itself. We changed, too, watching, absorbing.
As I unplugged Lava Lamp three hours later (and DH already in bed), the meaning of the night roared in.
We writers do all this as we pen the stories that call us to the page (or the computer).
Like solid wax in a cold lava lamp, Story remains static, unborn, unchanging. But give Story enough heat, time, and attention, and it rises to new life, changing shape, spawning tales, and building the form that was always inside. Waiting.
More than a half century ago, Michelangelo wrote: “The greatest artist has no conception which a single block of white marble does not potentially contain within its mass but only a hand obedient to the mind can penetrate to this image.”
Substitute a few words and you’ll find a writer’s truth: “The greatest writer has no conception which a single page* does not potentially contain within its mass but only a hand obedient to the mind can penetrate to this image.”
We’re not working alone.
The Story is already inside us, awaiting heat, time, attention.
Like a lowly little lava lamp.
*Substitute computer screen, piece of paper, notebook, etc.
*NOTE: The Michelangelo quote is verbatim from 1501, thus verbiage rings/reads somewhat stiff and awkward to 21st century ears/eyes.