Scribbled
The state of the page
It’s been a while since my last status report on non-blog writing, and conscience dictates that I say something or other about what I’ve been up to. On the other hand, that part of me that recognizes the deleterious effects of talking a project out - that is, the bleeding-out of creative energy and inner pressure, let’s say, that by rights should go into the work itself - tells me to shut the fuck up. The post you’re reading now is the result of a compromise between those positions.
So! Not producing as much as I’d like to regarding the long-term writing project (which I guess I should just go ahead and call a novel). I recognize that this is because I’m in an early research mode which dictates more processing than output, but I still feel kind of itchy about it. On the other hand, the research is actually going well; I’m learning a lot about things I know little about. The most positive aspect of the research so far is the realization that my initial notions regarding the novel aren’t wholly and laughably off-base. You have no idea what a relief that is.
Anyway, the research will go on for a while.
As for other stuff: currently shopping a story around and feeling fairly good about it. At any rate, it’s good to have it out in the world, trying to earn its keep.
Another project is trying to get my attention, as though I was capable of managing more than one writing project at a time. That’s funny, sort of.
More to come.
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Go, Phil, go!
I’m resigned to being happy that I can just get something on the blog now and then until I retire. Then watch out, world. Grandma Bitty will make you all forget about Grandma Moses.
Although an oddball dream inspired something this morning…here’s a rough draft of a potential beginning. I’m glad I read this, or I would have completely forgotten about this except to remember that an idea came and left me. It’s ONLY rough:
At a loss to know what else to do with it, at noon I opened my deepest desk drawer and carefully placed the jar of vomit inside. Mr. Peanut looked back at me from the jar’s label in his jaunty way, and I gave him a nod. Co-conspirators, we were.
Yet I had no sinister motive. The boss had warned me – warned me – to send it quickly and efficiently down the toilet, but I know myself and my delicate sensibilities well enough to know that if I opened that jar, the contents of my own stomach would join those of the Great Man. Instead, I’d planned to tie the jar up in a plastic bag and put it in a general trash receptacle at the end of the day.
But everything changed at 3:00 when the last living member of the greatest rock group of the 20th century died down the hall in my boss’s office, with me in possession of his last supper.