This freewrite is one that I thought about while driving my car so it's not as pure a freewrite as I prefer. Also, I had to look at the map while *not* driving in order to write this piece. That said, I did write it in one sitting, in one continuous thought.
I'm headed west on I394, aiming for Excelsior. It dawns on me, after passing 101, that I need to be on highway 7 for the Excelsior exit. about four miles to my south. I whip past Wayzata, Orono, and Long Lake and eventually take highway 15 west, which zips me through Navare.
But I'm feeling good. I've set my CD player on repeat and I'm listening to "While Robing on a Winter's Night". I've my lil' yellow egg shaker in hand and working hard at keeping a steady rhythm. I cruise through Minnetonka Beach and Tonka Bay as I look over the choppy waters of Lake Minnetonka. It's like shattered glass turned into liquid as it juts against the fragmented shores.
I leave Manitou Road for Smithtown Road, glancing at my watch. The big orange bus will drop my nine-year-old home in another hour, I'd better get serious. Still, the hum of the music, the words creating a trance of magic lull me. "Who's gonna shoe your pretty little foot? Who's gonna glove your hand? Who's gonna kiss your ruby, red lips?" Darol's fiddle sings sweetly, a third voice to the melody.
I'm right where I want to be. It's been a long week. Just last night I whined to my husband--and I hardly ever whine--that I feel like I'm jumping from one fire to another, dousing, kicking ash, and moving to the next incendiary scene.
In the car, it's just me. It's music that plays over and over, but I never tire of hearing it. And my egg.
It's good to learn new challenges. I've decided that I'm going to learn to improve my musical beat. I like to watch Billy Ware playing all those assessory instruments with BeauSoleil. Subtle, yet essential. A steady beat has never been my forte, but I can learn.
But I'm feeling good. I've set my CD player on repeat and I'm listening to "While Robing on a Winter's Night". I've my lil' yellow egg shaker in hand and working hard at keeping a steady rhythm. I cruise through Minnetonka Beach and Tonka Bay as I look over the choppy waters of Lake Minnetonka. It's like shattered glass turned into liquid as it juts against the fragmented shores.
I leave Manitou Road for Smithtown Road, glancing at my watch. The big orange bus will drop my nine-year-old home in another hour, I'd better get serious. Still, the hum of the music, the words creating a trance of magic lull me. "Who's gonna shoe your pretty little foot? Who's gonna glove your hand? Who's gonna kiss your ruby, red lips?" Darol's fiddle sings sweetly, a third voice to the melody.
I'm right where I want to be. It's been a long week. Just last night I whined to my husband--and I hardly ever whine--that I feel like I'm jumping from one fire to another, dousing, kicking ash, and moving to the next incendiary scene.
In the car, it's just me. It's music that plays over and over, but I never tire of hearing it. And my egg.
It's good to learn new challenges. I've decided that I'm going to learn to improve my musical beat. I like to watch Billy Ware playing all those assessory instruments with BeauSoleil. Subtle, yet essential. A steady beat has never been my forte, but I can learn.
recommend
Facebook
Twitter
bookmark 
email
print
Comments: 6
I guess I have to say that it's a good freewrite and, if you got something out of it, it did what it was supposed to do.
The drive to find my destination could have been frustrating, but instead it was bliss.
p.s. Darol Anger ended up reading my piece and liked it. :-) That's also bliss, to write about someone's music and have that same person appreciate the writing.