| March 25th, 2007 |
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I blame the novel for being troublesome and slow-moving, but it's just as much my fault for not more often sitting down, looking at it, and at least attempting to make progress. Essentially only once per week, my one weekday off, in which I'll go out to specifically give it my undivided attention for a couple hours in a bar where I cannot be distracted by other gadgetries.
Whether it's a fire for the manuscript I didn't know previously or whether I'm just buckling down, I realize I need to tend to it far more often. I tried going out on the deck last night on what was a beautiful night, poured myself a glass of brandy, sat there and saw distant street lights through the trees that looked mysteriously like the deck lights of ships out on the ocean, but I could not write, and so I packed it in after no time at all and returned inside for some listening of music and eventual sleep.
However, I felt the bite this morning while doing my morning reading. But not on the novel. To return to two paragraphs I had written back about two or three weeks ago after watching The Illusionist, the only non-novel writing I had done since I began it in Dec. '05. Returned to it, added to it, felt it, and although I only wrote on it for about fifteen minutes, adding only about 300 words, it was undeniably something completely separate from the novel, not even in the same time line, and it gives me a parallel attention, something else I can focus on if I'm not feeling the novel, which I suspect has been one of my problems, having only this one outlet and if not in the mindset for that then having nothing.
And just writing this post it feels unorganized and like light breaking apart through a prism, shooting off in every direction but straight ahead, but at least I understand myself.Present Soundtrack: Anathema :: A Natural Disaster |
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