Oh, I hope I don't have many more days like today. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the inkling of brilliant summer days full of possibilities. Maybe I just wanted to go to the beach. My writing today bored me. I caught myself yawning several times. Honestly. I think I need to stop reading Wallace Stegner. My work isn't nearly so literary, although I hoped it would be. He simply awes me, the way he originates, makes the ordinary extraordinary, collects the ingredients of a remarkable moment and then articulates it in the fewest possible words. I'd be like blah blah blahbbing on and on, insisting on a description so intensely, I end up overwriting it. A few hours on the books today. Lousy. Blah!
I'd like to say some other things: about a long-overdue phone call with Deb, my bon(ne) vivant(e) girlfriend from Rhode Island, falling in love with her all over again, with her exuberance and lusty spirit; about Winnie coming home from New Mexico with shrunken and/or missing tumors, praying for some cooperation from American doctors and higher red and white blood cell counts (bubbles, bubbles, bubbles swarming all around her); about the utterly delicious feeling of holding a watering can over potted plants. But I'm too afraid to let today's clutsy wordsmithing ruin the moment. Maybe another day, huh?
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1 comment:
Stop it with the Stegner angst. The guy didn't hit his stride until he was in his 50s at his youngest! You've got years to go! (also, remember the woman in Ohio who wrote that novel in the '80s and she was 94 or something--her first! You'll do yours before you're 50.
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