I’m feeling like Whiskey today. Not the alcoholic beverage, though you could be forgiven for thinking that, given the long, clichéd partnership between alcohol and writers.

No, I’m actually talking about a horse—this horse, in particular:

During my family’s recent vacation, we went horseback riding, and I was paired with a gorgeous horse named Whiskey. Once we were actually on the trail, Whiskey was a good-natured, responsive, reliable, trustworthy mount, and I really enjoyed our beautiful trail ride through the Sea Pines Forest Preserve.

I bet you noticed, though, that I started that last sentence with “Once we were on the trail,” didn’t you? Hope the placid picture didn’t fool you…

Though placid he was for the ride itself, when we were not on the trail, but waiting for others to mount or dismount inside the holding corral, Whiskey was a giant pain in the ass. Every other horse in the group—and there were maybe fifteen or twenty of us total—waited serenely and calmly and precisely on the dime where the handlers had “parked them.” But not Whiskey, ohhhh, no. He was ready to go, finished with this waiting crap. He kept inching his way backwards, trying to sneak out of line, and pestering the other horses. [Now I’m sure some vastly more experienced rider will read this and kindly decide to take it as an opportunity to instruct me in the finer points of horsemanship so behavior like this doesn’t happen with me and my next horseback ride, so let me take this opportunity to cut you off at the pass and say “Shut up. Not the point of my story.” But thanks for your generosity.]

The handler and I had to work hard (okay, maybe not so hard, more like, hard-ishly) to get Whiskey back into line while the other riders mounted, and I have to say, I was getting a little nervous. After all, there were alligators out there; what if he bolted, with me hanging on for dear life, and shot me right over his head into Lake Joe?

Fortunately, my fears were quickly allayed because, as I said, once we got going Whiskey behaved exceptionally well, which led me to conclude that earlier, he was just suffering from a surplus of exuberance and raring to go. Who could blame him? I mean, really, who wants to stand locked up in a pen when you can be out walking a beautiful trail on a beautiful day? Let’s go, already!

But of course, even though it was a lovely ride, I quickly realized when we returned to the corral at the end and had to line up and wait—again—for the other riders ahead of us to take pictures and dismount, that clever Whiskey had clearly lulled me into a false sense of security with his docile and accommodating trail behavior.

As the wait grew longer (Take the damn picture, already!), Whiskey grew even more impatient than he was before the ride, stamping and snorting, trying to butt in front of the other horses, blowing earthshaking raspberries into the dirt. He barely stood still long enough for me to dismount before bucking and galloping wildly, free at last, into the pasture where, apparently, his lunch awaited him. (Yeah, I get that way about food, too, Whiskey, I feel you.) Needless to say, I was immensely grateful that he had waited for me to get clear before he started sprinting.

Whiskey, dear friend, I so get you—you were tired of being confined, tired of standing still or plodding in a circle. You were ready to break free.

I’m feeling that now. It is, of course, what I mean when I say I’m feeling like Whiskey.

As you know, I’ve been working on my first M.A. in Fiction class for the last four months. It’s been an incredible experience, and I have learned more, and grown more, as a writer, than I’d ever dreamed I would, and I am looking forward with great anticipation to the next class I will take in the fall.

For the last four months, I’ve also only worked on reading and writing for school: creating pieces from someone else’s writing prompts, reading books and stories which, while edifying and largely enjoyable, I probably wouldn’t have chosen on my own (though now, and especially after his interview in the March/April 2014 issue of The Writer’s Chronicle, I am an ardent fan of Richard Bausch and will read everything of his I can get my hands on). While it was all part of necessary work that needs to be done, both as part of the degree program as well as of my pursuit of becoming a better writer, “necessary” takes away a lot of the joy and freedom I get from my own writing, to which I’m eager to return now. I’m ready to be free again, if only for a little while until my next class begins.

The writing I’ll return to next month includes finishing The Water Bearers, at last. This week, I’m thrilled to say, another thread of a Gordian plot knot I’ve been wrestling with has finally loosened, thanks to Neil deGrasse Tyson, Cosmos, and a fascinating little critter called a Tardigrade:

I can’t share too much of what a Tardigrade has to do with my novel (not yet, anyway), but suffice it to say, that when I watched that episode this week with my youngest son, it was an AHA! of the greatest magnitude. Yeee Haaaaaa!

So now, with just one week of class left, the time to be placid and serene is drawing to a close.

I am Whiskey, stomping, pawing at the ground—and yes, forbid the pun, chomping at the bit. I am ready to go.