The day is long and bright and warmer than a dream of spring. I watch the sun move across the sky from seven in the morning until dusk, perched at my desk reading and writing. There are pages upon pages to revise, reshape, to write fresh, and to read, read, read.
I begin with Umberto Eco’s collection of essays, Six Walks Through the Fictional Woods. It is, in my opinion, the academic approach to reading and experiencing literature and it borders on the philosophical and steps even closer to clear cut rules of advisement about the craft of writing itself. I read seventy pages, half the book, then have breakfast.
Onward, to the new story. It’s been cooking for days, even had a few false starts. But I am reaching a point in my practice of writing where I can gauge whether I should attempt revisions or attack new narratives. This morning my instructions were as clear as the day I watched outside my window: new, new, new. I sat, I typed, I thought. I drove up to my parent’s house and dug through an old box of middle school memories. There was one thing I was looking for: A love note I wrote to my seventh grade boyfriend, Tony, that was never delivered. I had rediscovered this note over the holidays and knew I’d need it later. Now was the time.
It took less than ten minutes to find the note and I zipped back down the mountain, then up the thicket and back to my cabin. More words came, still more. In the end I had gone from two to ten pages, and concluded the first draft of the story.
Fresh writing often feels like our best. We love it, shine about it and show it to the world. Time is the best doctor and teacher. Today’s accomplishments feel noteworthy but still, sitting on this one will be good.
Off to bake bread, watch a movie with DT, read some more, then sleep, sleep, sleep.