A lot of post-it notes have come down off the wall above my desk. Little ideas have become paragraphs or pages, and in some cases, are in the wastebasket where they belong. I have a decent draft of a short story, I think, and it has nothing to do with divorce or marriage which proves something good is happening here. I'm getting closer to sending Beneath the Water back to my agent--pretty sure that'll happen Monday afternoon. I have a whole new beginning to the 2nd memoir which is about you-know-what, but it's going swell just the same. I did a critical essay on a Tobias Wolf story I adored and tonight, I'm just going to jumble up my damn novel like my MFA mentor has asked me to. I'm two weeks into this residency and I haven't felt this good in ages (about writing, anyway--but yeah, about most other things, too.) I have concluded that my brain does not work in L.A. Too much history, too many Freeway exits where I think, hmm that's how you get to... and we used to always... and I remember when we.... the whole place looks like him and the scent of jasmine or rosemary smells like the night air coming into every bedroom we ever slept in. You know what it smells like here? Leaves. Frost. Stars. And absolutely nothing.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Strategically Placed
A lot of post-it notes have come down off the wall above my desk. Little ideas have become paragraphs or pages, and in some cases, are in the wastebasket where they belong. I have a decent draft of a short story, I think, and it has nothing to do with divorce or marriage which proves something good is happening here. I'm getting closer to sending Beneath the Water back to my agent--pretty sure that'll happen Monday afternoon. I have a whole new beginning to the 2nd memoir which is about you-know-what, but it's going swell just the same. I did a critical essay on a Tobias Wolf story I adored and tonight, I'm just going to jumble up my damn novel like my MFA mentor has asked me to. I'm two weeks into this residency and I haven't felt this good in ages (about writing, anyway--but yeah, about most other things, too.) I have concluded that my brain does not work in L.A. Too much history, too many Freeway exits where I think, hmm that's how you get to... and we used to always... and I remember when we.... the whole place looks like him and the scent of jasmine or rosemary smells like the night air coming into every bedroom we ever slept in. You know what it smells like here? Leaves. Frost. Stars. And absolutely nothing.
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4 comments:
I am back from my recharging trip to Louisiana with old friends and did a workshop that let me get rid of old baggage, too. I looked forward to reading this after dealing with 3000 spams and six or eight real letters in my mailbox. Sounds like you are doing so well, and clearing, clearing, clearing. This weekend, while writing, your name came up as someone with whom I want to keep current and one I will nurture. Your writing is strong. Keep going, believe in your dream. Love, Kath
We are travelers, Kath, & wherever I go, I want to know where you are.
Love, D.
Great post although I admit to feeling really bummed that you might now permanently live here! But I guess words connected us in the beginning and will continue to do so...
oops -- a typo: "you might NOT permamently live here"
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