Friday, January 14, 2011

just

I come in the back door as usual, step on the old towel on the kitchen floor and shimmy my boot soles dry. Set pizza and salad down on counter. It's the first take out I've ordered since the Girl went to her dad's last Sunday. I didn't earn it, but I wanted it.

I pull off one boot.

The other is stubborn. Left foot arch too high for boots. Hop into dining nook, fall onto floor, loosen the laces more, tug off the boot and drop it. One boot stays in the kitchen; the other stays in the dining room.

I needed to leave my house today, wish I had walked in the cold, cold air with my coat unzipped, but that wouldn't have been smart. I went to the library, found my favorite table in the upstairs stacks vacant, danced a little with mild joy.

I wrote through the library sounds and my own self-consciousness and fake writers block (because I don't really believe in writers block) for an hour, pages and pages. Fast, fast. Didn't stop. Wrote dialogue, character notes, notes to self about the couple who came upstairs to look for some book on some historical era. I liked the way she sighed. Her sigh matched the brown leather of her jacket.

My hand cramped, so I clicked my pen shut, tucked notebooks in bag, wandered down to the poetry section, found Mary Oliver's Thirst, climbed back up the stairs to fiction and found a collection of Dashiell Hammett novels.

I am in need of mental healing. These are the kinds of things that heal me.

Ice in my water
a good salad
thin crust, individual pizza,
cat in the corner of the sofa.

The writing had nothing to do with the distress I've been feeling for a week. But the writing let me work my way back into a world I started creating in November.

I discovered some things, reassured myself that I could, maybe, possibly, write a bad draft of the young adult sequel of my possibly never-to-be-finished Lily novel by mid-February.

I guess I might have promised a young friend I would finish, though I'm not sure she knows what I promised.

She will be my "first reader."

She may not love the book I am writing, but she'll love being "first reader."

It's time to stop typing, massage my right hand, hard, pick up pen, flip open notebook, keep going.

1 comment:

  1. Don't have much to say except that I'm reading all your posts and want to send any encouragement I can through the blogosphere to keep going.

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