As this lands in your inbox, I will be trying to get my family out the door and up to Rockefeller Center to see the world famous Rockettes line up and precision kick kick kick their little buns off in one of four shows on Saturday alone.
I bet it will take us two hours to leave our apartment. Opposite of precision. The bucket of cookies and champagne in a commemorative plastic flute will be a fitting reward for the effort, never mind that it will only be 10am when we settle into Radio City’s plush velvet seats.
Not many things have felt precise about my writing practice this fall. I set a goal in September to have a new draft of my novel ready for a workshop in January. Then came the twins climbing out of their cribs every night. The eight plagues that visited us in November. The ninth that waited until December: three more fevers this week and the ultimate statement of imprecision – someone pooped in the tub. I won't name names.
Writing hasn't been getting all my extra attention.
I saw an old friend for lunch on Tuesday and she was generous in wanting to hear how things have been going. I realized I hadn't talked about my book with anyone at length in a while. I heard myself expressing things that seemed overwhelming and impossible in my mind but in conversation sounded more like reasonable items on a to-do list, albeit a list already laden with things like bleaching the tub.
A lot of my stuck feelings come from my difficulty to turn off my editor brain, the little voice that knows the continuity is off, the dialog poor, the audience’s attention unearned.
My friend sensed the stress and drag and made the great point that maybe being thrilled with every word wasn't a great goal. Any good editing process will slash at them all anyway so why be completely precious? Could I see a small degree of dissatisfaction, of imprecision, as success at this stage? It was a little kick at my inertia that I hope will help get me moving again.
(It would also help if I could get some sleep and stop needing to bleach everything in the house, but hey.)
Week 94: Line up
Some everyday: No
Words: a handful
See you next week.