Your Daily Miracle: Shower Fridays
Is it really Friday again?
Heck, yes. Apparently it is. I am giving myself a little treat right now--I've moved from the straight-backed kitchen chair where I usually work for hours very faithfully at my desk to a red rocking chair so I can see the flames leaping in the woodstove. These rocking chairs are generally reserved for evenings. There is a good reason for that: Fire + red rocking chair=Snooze. It reminds me of Mr. Putter and Tabby Write the Book (you can read it by clicking the title), where Mr. Putter feels so overwhelmed by the enormity of writing that he has to nap and eat to sustain himself--until he gives up entirely after writing the title. But I relate. Titles are very hard.
Yesterday, after being shot down by one agent, I felt sorry for myself for approximately five hours. (Martin may have differing data on that.) Last night I felt at loose ends, and today I'd almost resigned myself to a day of housework. But this morning, the shower-miracle happened. Come on, you know what I'm talking about.
I scrubbed mildew from the corners of our shower (not the miracle), soaped myself with a tiny sliver of soap, since nobody bothered putting in a new bar (not the miracle), lost track of time, and had to scramble out the door, barely dressed and with my hair half-brushed, to take the kids to school (STILL not the miracle). No, my dears, the miracle is, a new beautiful project sort of just feel into my head. A brand-new book! I've started. I've got the first two chapters written.
Now, I kind of feel like I'm skipping class or church or a work appointment, since the logic of starting a new book whilst you have two other books that are not represented or with publishers yet is just ridiculous and frankly rather irresponsible.
But I don't know what to do with the other two right now, and my writing-life has, as a result, become a bit joyless, and the prospect of a new project is so titillating. The first two chapters are such a jazz. After that, it gets to be work, and near the end, I am making myself sit down and write, and after that, I feel as if I have fallen in up to my ears in pages and pages of edits. This is when I start wandering around like a half-wit and murmuring to anyone who will listen, "I'm not sure what to do. . .I feel sort of lost. . .not sure. . ."
Tell you the truth, I need some words to keep me warm this winter. Besides, I have now done what I threatened to do last night on the ferry on the way back to Seattle. "Look," I said, "I'm just going to throw in the towel on realistic fiction. It's never 'quite right' enough. I know I'm a good writer. So next book, I'm going to write about princesses and things crawling out of gutters and all the stuff that kids are really reading right now."
By kids, I mean my kids, who LOOOOOVE the chance to plonk down their money at school book fairs for princess books with glamorous girls on the cover. Well, my book is about an ugly girl with work-hands, and there are no princesses anywhere. But it is rather magical, and I love what it does to a gloomy, grey, Northwest day--kind of makes a glow like the fire in the woodstove.
I've spent the week writing because I have to, and visiting a dear friend in the hospital, and the air had begun to feel a bit heavy and darkish. But it's Friday after all. Look how much--good and bad--has happened around the world and in our own lives in just a week. It boggles the mind.
Timer is beeping for the banana bread. Make that chocolate-almond-banana bread. I'm no fool. Anything can be a backdrop for chocolate and nuts. And it's Friday, after all.
Heck, yes. Apparently it is. I am giving myself a little treat right now--I've moved from the straight-backed kitchen chair where I usually work for hours very faithfully at my desk to a red rocking chair so I can see the flames leaping in the woodstove. These rocking chairs are generally reserved for evenings. There is a good reason for that: Fire + red rocking chair=Snooze. It reminds me of Mr. Putter and Tabby Write the Book (you can read it by clicking the title), where Mr. Putter feels so overwhelmed by the enormity of writing that he has to nap and eat to sustain himself--until he gives up entirely after writing the title. But I relate. Titles are very hard.
Yesterday, after being shot down by one agent, I felt sorry for myself for approximately five hours. (Martin may have differing data on that.) Last night I felt at loose ends, and today I'd almost resigned myself to a day of housework. But this morning, the shower-miracle happened. Come on, you know what I'm talking about.
I scrubbed mildew from the corners of our shower (not the miracle), soaped myself with a tiny sliver of soap, since nobody bothered putting in a new bar (not the miracle), lost track of time, and had to scramble out the door, barely dressed and with my hair half-brushed, to take the kids to school (STILL not the miracle). No, my dears, the miracle is, a new beautiful project sort of just feel into my head. A brand-new book! I've started. I've got the first two chapters written.
Now, I kind of feel like I'm skipping class or church or a work appointment, since the logic of starting a new book whilst you have two other books that are not represented or with publishers yet is just ridiculous and frankly rather irresponsible.
But I don't know what to do with the other two right now, and my writing-life has, as a result, become a bit joyless, and the prospect of a new project is so titillating. The first two chapters are such a jazz. After that, it gets to be work, and near the end, I am making myself sit down and write, and after that, I feel as if I have fallen in up to my ears in pages and pages of edits. This is when I start wandering around like a half-wit and murmuring to anyone who will listen, "I'm not sure what to do. . .I feel sort of lost. . .not sure. . ."
Tell you the truth, I need some words to keep me warm this winter. Besides, I have now done what I threatened to do last night on the ferry on the way back to Seattle. "Look," I said, "I'm just going to throw in the towel on realistic fiction. It's never 'quite right' enough. I know I'm a good writer. So next book, I'm going to write about princesses and things crawling out of gutters and all the stuff that kids are really reading right now."
By kids, I mean my kids, who LOOOOOVE the chance to plonk down their money at school book fairs for princess books with glamorous girls on the cover. Well, my book is about an ugly girl with work-hands, and there are no princesses anywhere. But it is rather magical, and I love what it does to a gloomy, grey, Northwest day--kind of makes a glow like the fire in the woodstove.
I've spent the week writing because I have to, and visiting a dear friend in the hospital, and the air had begun to feel a bit heavy and darkish. But it's Friday after all. Look how much--good and bad--has happened around the world and in our own lives in just a week. It boggles the mind.
Timer is beeping for the banana bread. Make that chocolate-almond-banana bread. I'm no fool. Anything can be a backdrop for chocolate and nuts. And it's Friday, after all.
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