Last week was one of the most delicious weeks of my life. I wrote every day for at least four hours a day, a few five, and one six. On Sunday, Brian reviewed my Chapter One rewrite and agreed I could move on. But this week, I'm finding more obstacles in my writing brain. I can't sink my teeth into Chapter Two; it's meat that hasn't yet formed on the bones of the Angus. So, yesterday, Monday, I read Wallace Stegner, my literary hero, for inspiration, and reviewed notes in my hiking journal. When I hike, I keep a small notebook, slightly larger than my palm, in a fanny pack. Moving unlocks my mind, so an hour's hike can produce a load of material. The ideas just ooze out of my head, and if I stick the journal under my chin, I can capture them all on its pages before they fall under my trail-ripping treads. I used to unzip the fanny pack and pull out the journal, jot a few words down, then tuck it back in my pouch. Nowadays, I keep it in my hand. I got tired of all that zipping and unzipping. Part of my problem this week is that I hurt my back. I can't move.
I'm still trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do with all this blogging. I feel like I just spent 30 minutes looking at myself in the mirror. I'm not comfortable with that. Are you?
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2 comments:
at the very least, blogging gives you an outlet for somewhat random thoughts. writing, writing, writing.
it's always good. and eventually it will grow into something else. a golfer doesn't always play 18. she sometimes hits at the driving range; sometimes chips plastic balls on her front lawn.
It's all plastic balls right now.
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