Argued with my muse earlier this week. She told me, “Write this.” I replied, “But why? This is going in an unexpected direction.” Her response: “Just write it.” It was the disdainful tone she employed that precipitated the argument. I was all, “I’m the writer here. I’m in charge.” She loosed mocking laughter in answer. Eventually, she told me that I was obsessing over the novel’s concept to the detriment of the plot, story, and characters. Ouch. Harsh words.
This kind of novel-writing confusion often happens to me. Wait, what am I doing? Where am I going? What’s supposed to happen? I’m a pantser, not an outliner. I generally want to know where the story goes and leave the details to my muse (or muses) to fill in for me. I’m a person prone to overanalyzing matters, though, why often helps me confuse myself. Sitting down and doing a session to address where I’ve gone awry generally puts me right. I often indulge in several of these sessions while writing a novel’s first draft.
We were doing the laundry the other day. The dark load finished washing. I transferred it to the dryer. My wife loaded the washer with a load of whites. The dryer finished with the darks. I pulled them out, then put the whites in and went off and folded the darks. My wife was busy reading, so when the whites finished, I pulled them out and started folding them. As I did, I thought, what does she do to these socks? They’re not very clean. My wife, looking up from her reading, said, “Did you do the whites?” Her question confused me. “No, you did. I just put them in the dryer.” “Um, were they wet?” I thought back: actually, no. Sheepishly, chased by her laughter, I put the whites back into the washer. This happened two days ago; she’s still teasing me about it and laughing.
Cancer strikes again. Another friend in the hospital with some cancer variation. One of those things that elicit a long sigh even as I intellectualize, well, it’s life and death, isn’t it? Where we all end. Yeah.
My formerly broken arm (the left one) continues improving. Did pushups this week. First was just a half one. Lot of quivering arm with it, some mild pain, greater worry. I think worry was holding me back all along. The arm just remains so thin looking, and the wrist still doesn’t move right. Hence, my worry. But I’ve done more pushups since. This morning, I managed two sets of four. Yeah, baby, progress.
Wrote this post during the AM hours. Then sat on it while I drank coffee and wrote like crazy. Now time to run to the library. They do a door service. Books are put on hold; we go to the door where a table is set up. They come out, we identify ourselves, and then the librarian goes in to find the books for us, check them out, and return. After the library, drop off some muffins to friends, then back home to eat a late lunch and rake leaves. Stay positive, test negative, and wear a mask.