Tuesday--Day 2 of a Week to Write

Photo by Philippe Oursel on Unsplash

This pic makes me think of Rita Mae Brown’s words about “if your two cats do not sit on your manuscript pages, then you should toss them out—the pages, not the cats.” And she goes on about “two”—a writer needs more than one cat, apparently… says the writer who credits her cat, Sneaky Pie, as co-author.

I wrote about Brown’s writers’ “survival manual” last year. Check it out.

Brought to you by the number 2, Day 2.

Yesterday—Monday—I kicked off a week of intense writing, in an effort to complete (or close to!) my novel. Somehow I managed to click the wrong button, and sent it only to paid subscribers, though I intended it for all. Here’s the link to the post if you want to see what I’m up to with this. It’s for all readers. And I didn’t include a “subscribe” button. I get tired of adding those! I swear once I get to the point of enough (250 is my goal) I will stop placing those in the midst of my posts—I look forward to that day.

So this is Tuesday, and yesterday was a solid Day 1. Nothing exciting or surprising happened. But I don’t really expect surprises on first days of such a time. This work follows patterns: a time of immersion, and it’s not until I’m in deeper that “surprise” can happen. Usually.

I re-wrote a handful of the fictional blog entries in the novel. And did a “find” search, following the thread of a particular character. Then read through a number of pages looking for text in red—which, for me, is a flag that I need to re-write some bit. Coluring font is a tool I use frequently. Sometimes, if stuck, I just colour it for a later point, and move on. To return later and push until it’s closer to what I want.

I worked for almost four hours (and did laundry—I do need to take moments to “do things.” I think I’ve spent too much of my life multi-tasking to do otherwise). Had my sizable thermos of coffee, rode the stationary bike for about an hour. I read a novel for my book club group: Station Eleven, by Emily St. John Mandel. The opening caught me… but it began to turn into a pandemic story, and it’s not strange to me that I find myself resisting reading about a flu that kills people… Enough already. As I was reading, I was looking for snips that drew me in emotionally—what I’m most seeking in my own work. And when found, scrutinizing.

After the bike ride, back to work until I needed fresh air. A walk to the library to return books. A rainy day, not cold, but had all the look of fall with green leaves.

Back to work, but then a phone call came. I ignored it. Then a text message. “Can you call me…” Someone this person knows and loves has been diagnosed with ALS. I can’t ignore such a call. I called, I talked with for about an hour. Some things are more important. (If you’re new here, I lost both my spouse and father to this disease, and I’ve written a memoir of my time caregiving. I often get people—some I know and some I don’t—reaching out. I can’t not respond.)

After that, it was time to leave off. It suddenly felt like a work day. Apart from the phone call even; even when you know you love to write, some days just feel like work days, days to grind. But grind days turn into surprise days.

I did a sort of “cool down” (see? writers really are athletes) by re-reading an article I’ve written for The Writer Magazine, checked through the cover letter that I wrote to go with, and sent off. Two of my boys came over and we indulged in a couple episodes of Merlin, and had BLTs, an easy dinner. A day of work, exercise, and family. With some tough reality in the mix.

Yes, I called the mechanic and ordered the car door handle. (First thing I did.) He returned the call to ask if I’m okay with a handle of a different colour. It’s writer car, a Corolla! I’d love a purple or orange handle. But yeah, I’m fine with bone. Maybe bone will be tougher than plastic… And I told him I won’t be able to bring it in until next week. I’m in my cave, writing.

I also took out the garbage, dumped it in the bin for tomorrow’s pick up, and emptied computer virtual trash, which sounds even better.

And I changed the number of ‘Days Left to Christmas’ on the chalkboard my holiday-infected son has left up: it’s 193 fyi.

Distraction. It’s a thing.

If patterns follow, then Day Three will have a Surprise.