Never have I felt so close to a famous author as today! Let me explain: I woke up with an idea on how to begin my GWP2 (Great Writing Project No.2). Indeed, the idea blossomed in my head. Content came flying. The story took shape. It was so good! I got up quickly, waved absently to Ed who looked up with a question mark in his eyes, one I did not bother answering. I went downstairs and began to write. A page later, I paused. The animals had to be fed, my bicycle needed a morning spin, with Ed today, breakfast had to be fitted in.
And then I was back at it. And as the words flew and the pages multiplied, the brow furrowed, the excitement fizzled, and the first attempt to put something into written form felt feeble and not at all like the brilliant idea I had had in my head. It felt awkward and boring and dumb.
This is when I remembered Ann Patchett's essay, "The Getaway Car: A Practical Memoir about Writing and Life." In it she talks about exactly this: your story idea as it first hits you is perfection itself. The trouble starts when you begin writing it down. When words get in the way of a clean sail. Here's an excerpt from her essay:
This book I have not yet written one word of is a thing of incredible beauty, unpredictable in its patterns, piercing in its color, so wild and loyal in its nature that my love for this book, and my faith in it as I track its lazy flight, is the single perfect joy in my life. It is the greatest novel in the history of literature, and I have thought it up, and all I have to do is put it down on paper and then everyone can see this beauty that I see. And so I do. When I cant think of another stall, when putting it off has actually become more painful than doing it, I reach up and pluck the butterfly from the air. I take it from the region of my head and I press it down against my desk , and there, with my own hand, I kill it. ... Everything that was beautiful about this living thing -- all the color, the light and movement -- is gone. What I'm left with is the dry husk of my friend, the broken body chipped, dismantled, and poorly assembled. Dead. That's my book.
Eventually I had to put it all away. I had a dentist appointment which normally would be a bother, but today I was glad to have as an excuse to get up and out of the house, away from the computer, away from my GWP2. (Even though it was a bust of an appointment as the computer generated crown did not fit.)
And then it was kid time!
I'd promised them an ice cream today and so this was our first stop. At Tati Co, in my neighborhood.
And now we come to farmhouse time. I'd say that finally, toward the end of September, Sparrow is happily ensconced in farmhouse routines and Snowdrop has mostly accepted the necessary sharing of time and space with her little brother. The period of adjustment is behind us I think.
Evening... I used to be an evening writer. Posts for Ocean, book notes and chapters -- they all were formed and then edited in those late hours, worked on until I could no longer keep my eyes open. When I travel, this is still the case -- I write and edit Ocean stuff at the end of the day. Tough as it is to do it then, there's just no other time for it. But here, at home, if I don't get started on a post before dinner, then I am in trouble. And book writing? The earlier the better. I'm plum out of breath by the time dusk takes hold. And so tonight as well, I forget about everything and concentrate on doing nothing. With Ed, on the couch. Because it's just so fine to end the day like this. Letting go of great thoughts, high hopes, letting go of everything except that precious moment of closeness that comes from doing not much of anything important side by side.
with love...
