Sunday’s Wandering Thought
Sometimes when he was people watching, he wondered how many of them would be shit flingers if they were monkeys. Just one of many things he wondered, but there it was.
The Writing Moment
No silence. None for thinking — certainly none for writing. He’s with two people who verbalize their thoughts. Their thinking moves with the linear certainly of hail showering off pavement. Play by play is given: “Where did I leave that? Have you seen my *purse *hat *shoes *keys *contact lens *computer cord *books. I thought I left it — is that it over there? Oh, that is it. How did it get over there?” Laughter ensues as they explain to you the process that they just went through.
Variations exist. “Oh my God, I’ve lost my tricorder.” It’s not a tricorder, but a key, a pair of glasses, a credit card. Panic rising, they verbalize their fears that they’ve lost their item, searching and searching, providing updates on the search and expounding on their exasperation, worries, and anxieties.
But then, success! They have found it.
No place to hide from this. No place to write. Yes, writing it out is an exercise in self-pity and frustration. It’s been an exhausting day of vacation.
The Writing Moment
He felt like a historian or investigative reporter, ascertaining what had happened so he could write it up. Now on his novel’s second draft, he was still just learning the story, but it was even more fun than the first time around.
Wish I Wrote It
“Capitalism is a feral beast but I love her when she works for me.”
— Easy Rawlins
From Blood Grove by Walter Mosley
The Writing Moment
Sometimes, it all goes so well, and it’s such a glorious, uplifting, satisfying experience, that he’s amazed that he’s permitted to sit and explore ideas and characters, spinning lies, and calling them stories.
