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Feeling fretful
Sep. 28th, 2002 10:55 pmThis book needs a spine. It needs a plot. I haven't worked it out, yet. Actually, it feels like I am still short several key ideas which are necessary to structure it. Is what I'm playing with too similar to what I've read before? Is my thinking too simplistically dualistic? Can I ever write a sentence again that doesn't clunk? Am trying not to panic. Panic is ridiculously premature. One should wait until one has written, oh, say at least seventy pages, and THEN panic.
(I have a Far Side cartoon hanging on my wall, which shows a sheep sitting at a desk in front of a typewriter, throwing papers into the air in despair. The caption reads: "Forget it! Forget it! Everything I write is just so much bleating!")
Took the girls out for several errands today--more than they really wanted to run; they were pretty limp by the time we got home. I took them to see the Little Guy's house. They were extremely intrigued and made me promise to bring them back in the summer time, so that they could leave him a note.
Stopped at Patina, where I bought two votive/tealight holders with beaded shades, and four simpler votive holders, in the same warm brown. They're all burning in my office now.
I love my office. The candleholders are exactly what I've been wanting for several years, and look lovely against the wood paneling. Up around the ceiling, I have a row of art postcards, and fairy lights hang over them, around the entire room. With the fairy lights on, and the candles lit, it feels warm and cozy.
But it's cluttered. Um, really, REALLY cluttered. (I realized this anew when I came to the regretful decision that none of the candleholders could go on the desk, as it is too hopelessly strewn with papers.) I looked through some books on Feng Shu while I was at Patina and thought about it a bit, as I was trying to figure out where to perch those candleholders. Lots of Feng Shu I suspect is pure nonsense--I guffawed out loud at an illustration which explained how to cleanse unhelpful energy that lurks in corners by ritualistic clapping. Still . . . there are all those papers, and they feel oppressive. The pencil sharpener has been broken for at least two years. The books on top of the desk were research for the novel before the last one; I haven't opened any of them in ages. One of the bookcases is stuffed with software boxes for software I don't use. The cupboard over the computer monitor is full of back up disks so old that I haven't stuck them in the disk drive in years. There are paperbacks on the shelves that I don't expect to ever read again.
It's time to clean this office. I need to get rid of the stuff I accumulated writing the last two books, to make room for the stuff I'll accumulate writing this book. I'd like to get something to store my CDs that isn't so ugly, and that doesn't threaten to fall over. I need to clear off the shelving.
But what the hell do I do with all this stuff I'll be clearing out? I don't want to stuff it into the basement. Can I really bring myself to throw it away? (I'd better not do so in front of Rob, as he will object strenuously if I ever try to get rid of ANYTHING that might be useful at least once in the next twenty years.)
Well, I can start tomorrow. Since my computer will play DVDs, perhaps I could watch Lord of the Rings and clean/pitch at the same time, thus satisfying two impulses simultaneously. Perhaps I can be more ruthless while distracted.
And maybe it will be easier to come up with some way to structure the book once the desk is clean.
Part of me darkly suspects this is all merely an excuse to keep me from actually starting to write the book. Domestic chores look unbelievably alluring when the back brain is balking. (I can't write. I think I'll do the laundry/scrub the floor/file my paperwork/paint the bedroom.)
But I did do several pages of brainstorming/writing tonight, so I suppose I shouldn't feel too guilty. I just don't know how I'll be able to use it, or whether it will produce anything useful at all. Too soon to tell. Aargh. Creative angst.
Peg
(I have a Far Side cartoon hanging on my wall, which shows a sheep sitting at a desk in front of a typewriter, throwing papers into the air in despair. The caption reads: "Forget it! Forget it! Everything I write is just so much bleating!")
Took the girls out for several errands today--more than they really wanted to run; they were pretty limp by the time we got home. I took them to see the Little Guy's house. They were extremely intrigued and made me promise to bring them back in the summer time, so that they could leave him a note.
Stopped at Patina, where I bought two votive/tealight holders with beaded shades, and four simpler votive holders, in the same warm brown. They're all burning in my office now.
I love my office. The candleholders are exactly what I've been wanting for several years, and look lovely against the wood paneling. Up around the ceiling, I have a row of art postcards, and fairy lights hang over them, around the entire room. With the fairy lights on, and the candles lit, it feels warm and cozy.
But it's cluttered. Um, really, REALLY cluttered. (I realized this anew when I came to the regretful decision that none of the candleholders could go on the desk, as it is too hopelessly strewn with papers.) I looked through some books on Feng Shu while I was at Patina and thought about it a bit, as I was trying to figure out where to perch those candleholders. Lots of Feng Shu I suspect is pure nonsense--I guffawed out loud at an illustration which explained how to cleanse unhelpful energy that lurks in corners by ritualistic clapping. Still . . . there are all those papers, and they feel oppressive. The pencil sharpener has been broken for at least two years. The books on top of the desk were research for the novel before the last one; I haven't opened any of them in ages. One of the bookcases is stuffed with software boxes for software I don't use. The cupboard over the computer monitor is full of back up disks so old that I haven't stuck them in the disk drive in years. There are paperbacks on the shelves that I don't expect to ever read again.
It's time to clean this office. I need to get rid of the stuff I accumulated writing the last two books, to make room for the stuff I'll accumulate writing this book. I'd like to get something to store my CDs that isn't so ugly, and that doesn't threaten to fall over. I need to clear off the shelving.
But what the hell do I do with all this stuff I'll be clearing out? I don't want to stuff it into the basement. Can I really bring myself to throw it away? (I'd better not do so in front of Rob, as he will object strenuously if I ever try to get rid of ANYTHING that might be useful at least once in the next twenty years.)
Well, I can start tomorrow. Since my computer will play DVDs, perhaps I could watch Lord of the Rings and clean/pitch at the same time, thus satisfying two impulses simultaneously. Perhaps I can be more ruthless while distracted.
And maybe it will be easier to come up with some way to structure the book once the desk is clean.
Part of me darkly suspects this is all merely an excuse to keep me from actually starting to write the book. Domestic chores look unbelievably alluring when the back brain is balking. (I can't write. I think I'll do the laundry/scrub the floor/file my paperwork/paint the bedroom.)
But I did do several pages of brainstorming/writing tonight, so I suppose I shouldn't feel too guilty. I just don't know how I'll be able to use it, or whether it will produce anything useful at all. Too soon to tell. Aargh. Creative angst.
Peg
