I buried a dream last night.
His name was just OZ.
A yearling colt of no special parentage. He didn't have the bloodlines that trace back to foundation quarter horses like my filly Cinnamon, and he wasn't the granddaughter of Easy Jet, like mare old mare Fawn. But Oz was special to me. One of my former 4-Hers called me. Could I take a starving, beat-up colt? I told her no, but my sister probably might. Sherry did, and the colt came here to live for the winter.
And I fell in love.
He was so thin you could see every bone on him, and some idiot had left a halter on him until it embedded in his nose. I took that off and only put one on him again once--yesterday. He let me pet him, and when he began to shed this spring, he loved to have me curry him. But he didn't want his face touched. And I respected his wishes. There was no reason to force him to be touched where he didn't want my hands.
I love Cinnamon and Fawn. They're my girls. But Oz captured my heart in a different way. I haven't competed in years. Nowadays I prefer trail rides. But I began to think about taking this colt to competition. To competitive trail riding, specifically. Fawn is lame, arthritis in her knees, and Cinnamon is, frankly, lazy.
I had such high hopes. Oz was tall, athletic. The horse to carry me back to the competitive side of riding.
But God had another plan. He wanted this beautiful boy home in his pasture for whatever reason.
And so he went.
Fawn is still here, and so is Cinnamon. Maybe Cinn can do competitive trail riding. Maybe she's the one. I still have horses that I love dearly.
What, you ask, does this have to do with writing?
Not much, really. I'm grieving today, getting it out.
But I'm doing some serious thinking, too.
I have been struggling with writing for most of this year.
I thought my Single Title, A Real Bad Burn, was the story to carry me into the competitive arena. Like my pretty paint colt, it had a lot of possibilities. Lots of flash, lots of hope pinned on it.
But maybe it isn't what I think.
Maybe it needs to die to show me that I, too, still have talent, ability. Maybe it's time to turn away from it, and see what else is still here. There's other manuscripts that can carry me.
Maybe I just need to let Burn go...grieve it and pick up the pieces.
Easier said that done.
I miss you, Oz.
His name was just OZ.
A yearling colt of no special parentage. He didn't have the bloodlines that trace back to foundation quarter horses like my filly Cinnamon, and he wasn't the granddaughter of Easy Jet, like mare old mare Fawn. But Oz was special to me. One of my former 4-Hers called me. Could I take a starving, beat-up colt? I told her no, but my sister probably might. Sherry did, and the colt came here to live for the winter.
And I fell in love.
He was so thin you could see every bone on him, and some idiot had left a halter on him until it embedded in his nose. I took that off and only put one on him again once--yesterday. He let me pet him, and when he began to shed this spring, he loved to have me curry him. But he didn't want his face touched. And I respected his wishes. There was no reason to force him to be touched where he didn't want my hands.
I love Cinnamon and Fawn. They're my girls. But Oz captured my heart in a different way. I haven't competed in years. Nowadays I prefer trail rides. But I began to think about taking this colt to competition. To competitive trail riding, specifically. Fawn is lame, arthritis in her knees, and Cinnamon is, frankly, lazy.
I had such high hopes. Oz was tall, athletic. The horse to carry me back to the competitive side of riding.
But God had another plan. He wanted this beautiful boy home in his pasture for whatever reason.
And so he went.
Fawn is still here, and so is Cinnamon. Maybe Cinn can do competitive trail riding. Maybe she's the one. I still have horses that I love dearly.
What, you ask, does this have to do with writing?
Not much, really. I'm grieving today, getting it out.
But I'm doing some serious thinking, too.
I have been struggling with writing for most of this year.
I thought my Single Title, A Real Bad Burn, was the story to carry me into the competitive arena. Like my pretty paint colt, it had a lot of possibilities. Lots of flash, lots of hope pinned on it.
But maybe it isn't what I think.
Maybe it needs to die to show me that I, too, still have talent, ability. Maybe it's time to turn away from it, and see what else is still here. There's other manuscripts that can carry me.
Maybe I just need to let Burn go...grieve it and pick up the pieces.
Easier said that done.
I miss you, Oz.
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
ReplyDeleteAw, D'Ann, you're making me cry. I know how you loved Oz.
ReplyDeleteI had a dream die - a dream of feeling a baby growing in my belly, watching him or her grow up and have babies of her own. When that dream died I honestly thought I would curl up and die right along with it. But then something happened. We call her Shelby, and now she's my dream. Nope, I didn't feel her growing inside of me. I don't see my smile or the DH's eyes on her face. She is different from the dream I'd had. Not bad, different. Good, different.
I couldn't love a biological child more than I love her. But for me to know her and love her, my plans and dreams had to be put aside. Had to die a little bit.
I don't know if you need to put Burn away, only you can make that decision. But I do know this: you tell one hell of a great story. So grieve and take all the time you need. Then give yourself permission to move on. Train Cinn or another horse. Feel the joy of riding.
And write those great stories.
D'Ann, my heart is with you. I don't own a horse now, but I used to, and my dog and cat are very close to my heart. All creatures great and small. I'm so glad that you have other horses to help ease the ache.
ReplyDeleteOnly you can decide what path you need to take with your writing, but you love it too much to give up. You'll make the right decision in the end, I know.
I'm just sorry--you've had such awful days lately and nothing I say can take that away. But there is something I know--not that it will make you feel one bit better; it won't. But I know that out of pain comes some of the best writing.
ReplyDeleteThat being said, I think you need to grieve, and everyone has their own way of doing that.
How sad! Your post is touching and you do have my sympathy. You've written eloquently.
ReplyDeleteD'Ann -
ReplyDeleteMy heart hurts for what you've endured over the past couple of days. But if anyone can take a situation like this and make it into a heartfelt and, as someone else said, eloquent analogy of writing, it's you.
Even if you decide to leave the dream of Burn behind, it's brought something into your life--a lesson, a whisper, a frustration--that you needed. Sometimes what's short-lived embues the most powerful message.
I know that you're strong enough and talented enough to keep writing--and living--even when one dream dies.
Kels
Its ok to grieve. For with those memory Oz will live on. My heart breaks for you. Take care
ReplyDeleteNan
Unless you write like Margaret Mitchell, don't expect one manuscript to do it for you. We all think we wrote the next Gone With the Wind. But rarely does it work out that well. And remember even Margaret Mitchell got the low end of the deal, except in fame of course.
ReplyDeleteNever think one book will make you or break you. It takes many. Keep writing, keep expressing yourself and NEVER GIVE UP.
Good luck and keep your chin up.
Blessings
thank you for coming by, and thanks for the kind words.
ReplyDelete*big tight hugs*
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing this, D'Ann. I'm so sorry for your loss. Keep writing. You've got a lot to say and you say it well.
ReplyDelete