Julia Cameron suggests long-hand writing because in word processing, the finality of the delete key and the convenience of the backspace sends too much good writing into a black hole where they can never be retrieved. There's a scene in Wonderboys (Wonder Boys?) where the Michael Douglas character loses a manuscript he'd been working on for years, this epic thing that looks as though several trees had to lay down their lives for his art, and there's a conversation after regarding the fact that he had made no copies. An example of Hemingway (I think) who lost a collection of short stories at one point, and Douglas laments, "He was never able to recreate them." That fear has turned me into a pack rat, saving every scrap of paper I've used to jot a phrase or a line, knowing that someday, those words and the way they blend together will be the hook line for a song, the perfect ending for a story, the introduction that will pull a reader in.
So, Cameron suggests a "slush file," a place where all words slated for deletion be kept. I cannot imagine what mine might look like were I to attempt to keep one. Perhaps I can: a swirling, dark vortex of phrases such as "twittered 'neath the pines" and "hung like the pregnant blossoms of fuschia." Perhaps a slush file isn't such a good idea. Good luck, Ms. Cameron.
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Today marks the first day of real sunshine in almost a week. The barometric pressure has risen above thirty inches, and my body no longer feels as though it's encased in latex. I can breathe. Those random, shooting pains are still present, but I can almost make a game out of their presence, trying to guess which limb they'll torment next.
We're having dinner, George and I, with a couple of friends this evening. I nearly called to reschedule it, as I didn't know if (a) I'd be physically capable of going or (b) if I'd be much good company if I managed to muddle through. But, today, with that weight lifted, I'm glad I didn't call it off. Aside from the fact that I love these two dearly, I'm looking forward to spending time with grown-ups. Oh, we have lots of grown-up friends, though most of them, like us, are in odd stages of growing up. I guess that requires some explanation. Program folks don't take for granted that they react to things in an adult manner. Part of 'program' is to examine actions, reactions, and motives in a (hopefully) humble way. It's interesting and almost novel to see people who just are. They're different. Not better, not worse, just different.
Anyway, we're going back to a place we took the kids for dinner last week, Mary's Place. It's an old converted house that has these amazing murals on the walls. The closet is painted to look like a wine cellar, and the appearance of depth is really very good. All of the door frames are incorporated into the murals in novel ways. One is used to represent an arbor, and the wall sconces appear to be street lights. The claw-footed bathtub in the upstairs restroom is filled with green plants. It's awesome. Other than a waitress who couldn't tell the difference between tea and coffee last week, we had a wonderful dinner. I'm hoping for the same this evening, and I have no reason to feel it might be otherwise.
I have forced myself to write today: something, anything, but get my fingers on the keys and record a moment in life, or just a few thoughts. With the pain lately, all I've wanted to do is put online jigsaw puzzles together. They require no thought, no words, and I'm able to stop thinking in terms of hurt and discomfort. It's time to break out of that, but heck, it's not even noon. I can do just one puzzle, right?
Oh, look....a hummingbird, drinking nectar from the impatiens.
Till later.....
So, Cameron suggests a "slush file," a place where all words slated for deletion be kept. I cannot imagine what mine might look like were I to attempt to keep one. Perhaps I can: a swirling, dark vortex of phrases such as "twittered 'neath the pines" and "hung like the pregnant blossoms of fuschia." Perhaps a slush file isn't such a good idea. Good luck, Ms. Cameron.
************************************************************************
Today marks the first day of real sunshine in almost a week. The barometric pressure has risen above thirty inches, and my body no longer feels as though it's encased in latex. I can breathe. Those random, shooting pains are still present, but I can almost make a game out of their presence, trying to guess which limb they'll torment next.
We're having dinner, George and I, with a couple of friends this evening. I nearly called to reschedule it, as I didn't know if (a) I'd be physically capable of going or (b) if I'd be much good company if I managed to muddle through. But, today, with that weight lifted, I'm glad I didn't call it off. Aside from the fact that I love these two dearly, I'm looking forward to spending time with grown-ups. Oh, we have lots of grown-up friends, though most of them, like us, are in odd stages of growing up. I guess that requires some explanation. Program folks don't take for granted that they react to things in an adult manner. Part of 'program' is to examine actions, reactions, and motives in a (hopefully) humble way. It's interesting and almost novel to see people who just are. They're different. Not better, not worse, just different.
Anyway, we're going back to a place we took the kids for dinner last week, Mary's Place. It's an old converted house that has these amazing murals on the walls. The closet is painted to look like a wine cellar, and the appearance of depth is really very good. All of the door frames are incorporated into the murals in novel ways. One is used to represent an arbor, and the wall sconces appear to be street lights. The claw-footed bathtub in the upstairs restroom is filled with green plants. It's awesome. Other than a waitress who couldn't tell the difference between tea and coffee last week, we had a wonderful dinner. I'm hoping for the same this evening, and I have no reason to feel it might be otherwise.
I have forced myself to write today: something, anything, but get my fingers on the keys and record a moment in life, or just a few thoughts. With the pain lately, all I've wanted to do is put online jigsaw puzzles together. They require no thought, no words, and I'm able to stop thinking in terms of hurt and discomfort. It's time to break out of that, but heck, it's not even noon. I can do just one puzzle, right?
Oh, look....a hummingbird, drinking nectar from the impatiens.
Till later.....
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