I really don’t have anything to bitch about. I’m finally deep into this work-in-progress, the characters are getting human and quirky, the plot’s clipping along, and I’m pretty sure the people who have taken an interest in it won’t be disappointed. But here’s the thing: I’m still a slave to my day job, I still have family responsibilities that voraciously command my time, and I’m involved in a couple of professional organizations I wish I had more time for. Then there’s the fact that the deeper I get into this book the more the damn thing follows me around. Like today when I was in the shower and the whole thing decided to coalesce. I mean fuck! I’m in the shower! You know what a royal ass pain it was to hurry out and get to my notepad before it was sucked away by my severely-overworked brain cells? I think I managed to get it all down, but still!
Doesn’t help I’ve put myself on a deadline. No, it’s not from the publisher this time. It’s positively my own. I think I work best that way–assinchair assinchair assinchair. Every single solid free minute not already spoken for is devoted to the act of writing–early mornings before work, complete weekends, after dinner, and late into the night. Sometimes I just sit stare. Other times the words flow like wine. I get up only to stretch my legs and refill my tea mug. Consequently my wrists hurt, my eyes feel strained, my back aches. As I write this I have a shooting pain in my thumb. I have Post-it notes all over my laptop. My bulletin boards can’t fit one more scrap of research and notes. The hard copy of my synopsis is folded over on page four and I still have seven more pages to go. My phone needs charging. My stapler’s empty. Tea’s cold. I have a stack of bills yet to pay. My TBR pile’s getting out of control. I need chocolate. Fritos. Mint chocolate chip gelato. I’ll end up having yogurt eaten over the sink. I have an invitation to a new bar opening in town on Saturday and I still want to go. Roman Holiday‘s on TCM tonight and I still want to watch it. I’ll probably do neither. Still, still, still.
Still, I write. Sometimes so badly my Composition students would probably split their sides laughing. Sometimes so wonderfully I astound myself, thinking I’ve subconsciously plagiarized. Either way I’ll write.
Yes, this is what the beach looks like in the winter, and being a Jersey Girl from the Shore, it’s a sight I’ve seen many times. Still, it’s no less strange, seeing snow on the beach, and it’s something that I’ll probably not see soon nearly as much as I’ve seen in the past. We’ve put the old homestead up for sale since the ‘rents have passed on, though if you live in Jersey, you’re never too far from the coastline. It’s where I grew up and it’s what has sustained me all these years, but change is good, and I’m looking if not for greener (or sandier) pastures, but different ones.
Like where? Well, I’ve always loved the mountains. My father’s side of the family comes from the Catskill region of New York State (though their roots are in Iowa and South Dakota). I have friends in Vermont, and having only been to the Rockies once, I’d like to see more of them. My sister is contemplating moving to a house on a lake, and at least if I swam in it (which is a given), I wouldn’t have to think about sharks. Not that I worry too much when I swim in the ocean, but it’s one less thing I have to worry about.
Anyway, we still have the beach house a bit longer so here’s one more pix. It’s a hell of a lot better media than I’ve been gawking at lately anyway.
I really have nothing to say. Actually, I’ve been pretty speechless these days, mainly because most of what has been going on around me, especially in the media, has made my jaw drop. One of gaping maw moments hit me this afternoon when my husband banged at my office window. He told me to hurry to the other side of the house where I saw this huge beaver (expand to see its big paddle tail), just chomping on some grass in the neighbor’s yard. We live on a lake, and beavers have been known to steal our sapling trees, but I’ve rarely seen them, rather the evidence of them visiting, such as the sharpened-to-a-pike stumps of trees they’ve hauled off to their lodges. But this one was live and in person, though I recalled hearing somewhere they were supposed to be nocturnal. Hyper-aware of that fact because just that morning, we had taken our cat for his annual check-up and shots, and a nocturnal animal in the day was a red flag for rabies. So tried to get some info before going outside, learning that although they are basically creatures of the night, they do often come out during the day to feed, and that their prime mating period is January to March. So maybe this was just a gestating female doing the beaver equivalent of running out in the middle of the night for some beaver pickles and ice cream. What the hell. It’s possible.