Dear Reader,
Word Raccoon and I find ourselves in the unenviable position of having to choose a new place to write. Again.
Since they are shutting our usual café in about a month, for good this time, and it’s going up for sale, well, I’m thinking that’s no longer going to be an option for writing.
(Actually, they are shutting it down and reopening it in a nearby town. No thank you; my writing does not want to commute any real distance most days.)
But I’m too tired to even make any decisions right now. Only three days of All Novel, All August to go. No time right now for mourning the same place for, how many times does this make now? Too many.
Today has been an unusual writing day. First of all, Zack texted just as I was getting ready to head to the gym and asked if I had time for coffee.
Uh, obviously.
But WR and I went to the gym first and met up with Zack after we cleaned up. He was there when we were told the news about the place getting ready to close. Sigh.
We sat and watched the traffic whiz by together.
After he left, I remained and began working on what is probably the toughest part of my novel. Yes, an extremely rough draft exists, but some of the most difficult thinking lies ahead. I had to read some material I’ve been putting off because it’s too sacred and because I have to form an opinion on it and that will steer the rest of the novel.
I only read a portion of it today, all that I could handle. Ok, so I only read part of the part while WR covered her eyes.
It’s not only the most difficult part of the novel (can you believe I even have a novel without having completed this?), it’s the most tantalizing. Save the best for last and all that.
But it has taken hours to find and retrieve some documents. It’s part of the gig. If I’m going to create the letters and journal entries, I’ve got to not just read but study said materials.
When can we get back to poetry? It was so fun looking over my poems last night. I’m tempted to tell Verticals to go pound sand and just spend a month on nothing but poems.
Wait, WR, we did that last year. And we spent MONTHS, not a month.
BTW, I gave one of yesterday’s poems (okay, I only wrote two!) a haircut and here it is. Something I heard someone say about the noon whistle and how far they could hear (yay, it’s back!) sparked this.
Floridian Declaration
Some poems’ feathers are hot pink,
a Floridian declaration,
bathtub gin
contained to
a sink.
This one spreads its plumage,
as wide as your wingspan
and delights in being within
earshot of
the same noon whistle
as you.
My goal is to have a sturdy draft of Reaccessioned ready for beta readers by the end of the year, after the annual writing retreat. WR has dream beta readers on her wish list, if only…
Drema