There was an old woman
And nothing she had,
And so this old woman
Was said to be mad.
She’d nothing to eat,
She’d nothing to wear,
She’d nothing to lose,
She’d nothing to fear,
She’d nothing to ask,
And nothing to give,
And when she did die
She’d nothing to leave.
Blog
no write
a bad work project and a trip back east have conspired to keep me from finishing my last difficult scene. more to the point, though, this is the first time i have been separated from the work since i began, at least for more than a day or two. we are on day 11 now of being away from home, which is to say away from the work as well as all the other things that go with the concept home.
add to that the always-disconcerting feeling of being in my old home, and the homesickness that provokes, and it is all provoking strange thoughts in me. i am dwelling on the work, of course, but far more sensually than i have been for some time: thinking of it not in terms of plot but of touch and taste and smell, texture, the flavor of air and the public texts and the smell of bodies as they go about their day. perhaps, then, this is a positive to take from this abrupt rupture–that i have not instantly forgotten the work, but instead can feel it simmering in me still; that its environment is still incubating and growing in my mind.
those are the positives. the negatives are that it has heightened the sense that i am guessing every writer has, at least every writer who immerses in an imagined world, no matter how fantastic: the sense of committing a kind of emotional adultery with your family. i should be here, now, but a small part of me is always there; when left alone with my thoughts they drift back there, like sneaking off for a rendezvous; i even jump and act guilty when caught daydreaming. an act fraught with a vague sense of financial privilege as well: to be able to leave the mundane at will, to transport yourself at the drop of a hat, feels like an extremity of wealth, like winning a lottery but not telling anyone. when did daydreaming become so fraught?
plot not plot
back was hurting yesterday from too much time in the chair (writing and working both require being in front of a computer). and i was starting to bore myself with the writing, never a good sign. so i switched to paper on the floor, drawing rough “floor plans” of this last set piece and sketching who goes where, who hits who, who flees, who dies.
i did this once before with this same “final” scene; only that time it was in 6 panels and i knew it wasn’t right. this still doesn’t feel 100% right, but it is much, much closer to right than the last one (i keep writing write for right).
and lo! 6 became 14, which can be said for just about everything in this project. but we now get from a to z, everyone is accounted for, and some motivation/placement confusion is alleviated. now i just have to write the effin’ thing.