Shut Up and Write – Weekend Edition

Actually, Shut Up and Write is going away and I am sad.  It was a good time for me to come and work on things like blogging and have the opportunity to not do it alone.  But, I guess they say that all good things must come to an end and Shut Up and Write is ending.

That doesn’t mean that writing is ending. Especially since November is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and I’m going to attempt that again this year.  I know, I know, it’s completely nuts… but if I keep at it, eventually I’ll write something worth reading, right?  Well, that’s my theory anyhow, so I will continue writing.

I will likely not be doing a blog post a day in November like I did last year, but I do want to try to get here more often. I have a couple of projects that I am working on that I hope will be fun for y’all. But I have been thinking a lot about what I want/need to be doing with this space and I think I am getting things figured out.

I thought I had more to say today, but apparently the well is dry.  Must be time to Shut Up and Write something else.

(Update…) Actually, I came across something I’m just going to put here. For many reasons, this seems relevant to the experience that today ended up being…

I’m a big believer that energy recycles, that the people you loved that are gone live on through you.

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every BTU of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.

And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.

And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.

And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly.