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.