(Sixth draft notes, fall notebook, page number october something a rather.)
The bed can become an addiction during stretches of time when reality is stranger than it should be. Spontaneous typing after napping all day. A warm-up if you will. The air temperature has dropped and the cold air is coming, for a couple of days. The time of the year when nothing is set in stone. Whatever that means, and it never is, life will never be set in stone.
I’m outside. The sun went down an hour ago. Back to work. It’s going to be a long night. I’m thinking about the week ahead. What do I have to do?
Edit. I’m on page 120. Got there last night. People walked in. Drinks and saturday night. A drink to get loose. I know what that means now people said. You can keep working I was told. I can’t. Why? Two more hours will be gone. takes half an hour and then im gone and time forgets space. Writing is a form of meditation. Many people have said this. It is.
Some things never change. That’s why I’ve had to learn how to adapt to all environments. It’s not always easy. I’m still young. Getting there. The thing is, that as the mind becomes wise the body becomes easily relaxed. Writers can be some of the most adaptive people on the face of the planet. Writers are hunters. I can keep myself busy. I like people around that can keep themselves busy. Most people can’t leave me alone when I need to be left alone. That’s ok. I don’t need to be left alone. I can adapt.
One thing I have to keep reminding myself is to work out and keep the body active. My mind works much better after a good stretch of labor. I’m not tired per se, but rather, tired from being tired. That doesn’t really make much sense. It does. I don’t really care to explain it. I unplug and then get interrupted by every distraction that could possibly distract someone who is writing a novel or working in the zone. Writing a novel is hard and I always say I don’t know if I will ever write one again, even though I probably will jump right back into it after this one is done, after lets say, a good month away from the book.
Living is what this is about. I was writing a kind of spontaneous poem the other day, I’ll post it later tonight maybe after I get done working. I have less time to think about this blog because of so many projects that are really getting close to completion. The poem, I wrote it in my notebook, by hand. It felt good. I like waiting for things. There are no expectations. But when you’re wondering, should i get to my book? do i have enough time? time. time. TIME?
Worries are, as Hemingway said, what kills creative writing. He’s proof and the wisdom, much like many writers are, that you already know what to do, but it will never be easy to do, because life isn’t easy. That’s the plan. Live life and edit. Get a good 2500 words done tonight.
ADVENTURES OF A REAL DYING MAN. My final real edit is slowly coming around and who knows, sometimes when you get closer, some things gets further away. I really do like my novel. I think it has a chance to be a good book. I don’t know whats going to happen to it but I’ve worked on it so long that It’s kinda crazy because I never really stop living it. There are so many voices within fiction. Dreams are much like being awake. That’s why you watch real sunsets, watch the clouds, drive through the country, that’s why you wake up and wash dishes and clean up your office, thats why you eat real food and do real work, that’s why you make plans and outlines and forget about the dreams and the voices and the worries about how crazy writing can be. When you can’t create, you work. Henry Miller writing rule. Maybe the most important one.
Everything is a little bit crazy. Everything can become a night of worries. But like time, like reality, everything fades. Dont worry and rock and roll.
Some of the pictures below have been touched up and some have not. I’ll get to them some other time. Something is wrong with wordpress. It’s not saving my edits. I dont have time for this. Be cool. Thank you for reading.