A New Office, A New Day

Welcome to my new office: the Presidio Branch of the San Francisco Public Library. Aware that my location impresses no one in the blog-o-sphere, I am nonetheless giddy at the idea that I will be writing my novel in a library. It's a funky old building on Clay and Baker streets, yellow-bricked with long, slow stone steps and concrete columns flanking its massive oak doors. The main room, high-ceilinged, arched-windowed, oak-paneled, has that delicious mysterious scent of aged paper, opened to the damp air then closed to mold and then dry who knows how many times. Ah, the smell of book worship. This place, it's classic. Still, something sort of retrofit in feel makes me less a believer. Maybe it's the fluorescent lights set into the ornate ceiling mouldings or the 70s-era arm chairs, low slung and angular with brown Naugahyde upholstery. Maybe it's the pressed plywood bookshelves pretending to blend in with the old stacks. There's a sure sense of posing about this place. Like a town whose industry has shipped overseas but whose residents keep showing up at the factory punch-clock every morning. It has high-speed wireless Internet, though. This is where I will be most days writing the novel, now that Malcolm has started at Drew High School, beginning with a freshman transition program this summer. I'm having a little difficulty concentrating today, distracted by a startlingly diverse array of personalities among the library patrons and the way some said patrons keep looking over their shoulders at other said personalities who enter their personal space. Often. There's also the diminutive white-haired and -mustacheoed librarian who smiles too often and wrings his hands when he talks ("Be sure we get a copy of the book; children's is it?") He talks on the phone a lot, sweetly and with service in his heart, but casually too loud for a librarian's sensibilities. I wonder if I should be more wary than I am, so eager to establish familiarity in my new surroundings, talking so soon to this stranger. I had the same feeling this morning when I entered into two, count 'em two!, conversations with strangers at the Starbucks on Sutter and Broderick. You can take the girl outta New England. . . I thought it would be nice simply to enjoy the encounters, but something in the back of my Salem-haunted brain said "they're never what they seem." I may need to take my work downstairs to the Russian and Chinese literature room. I'm thinking distractions in another language might be less distracting.

So, here I am. Writing again. Working on the video was a rewarding creative experience, with a finished product in short time. But it was like a relative who comes for a week and stays three. I just couldn't seem to find a polite way of saying "enough!" After it was over, I had to attend to all of the minutia of life and family that I'd put aside to work on the project, and soon, I was a month behind in my writing. I think to myself, what would Mary Wagstaff do after drifting away from her painting for a month? Is it the same creature she left when she headed off to that surfing retreat in Costa Rica? How could it be? She's not the same person who left it. Every day makes a person new. Thirty days, a new life, it seems, in the world of creativity. Does Mary alter old brush strokes? Does Mary mix new shades? Does Mary make drastic changes to all that work already on the canvas?

My work this week, I've planned, will consist of rereading the finished chapters to orient myself. Next, I'll type up notes. My notes are more ephemeral in nature than the chapter work and therefore easier to forget. There's a lot of direction and decision in those notes, though, and this is a good time to tap it; see what ideas last stormed my brain.

Back to work, now. . .