Saturday’s Theme Music

Earth’s shift and clear skies has sunshine booming into the main bedroom. The room is on the northeastern corner, which is to say, the rear. Stunning to wake up to such golden light again. But the shift means that other house bits are darker again. Always adjusting…

It’s Saturday, 3.18.2023. We’re mourning for our friends, who’s beloved Purdue Boilermakers, #1 seed, fell in March Madness’s first round and is eliminated.

It’s 36 degrees F outside but the weather wicca tell us that Ashlandia highs will crest 65 F today. Was mighty fine yesterday, let me tell you. Spring fully ascended in all senses. Today’s sunrise was witnessed at 7:18 AM and the last of the sun in Ashlandia will be seen at 7:21 PM.

The weather pleases the housefloofs. Both are outside harvesting rays and grooming. Tucker’s thick white ruff, like a wondrous garment, shines in the light against his black markings, but Papi’s ginger and cream, marked with orange swirls, are pretty, too.

I have “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright”, by Bob Dylan, in the morning mental music stream. A dream thing, an editing and writing thing, an admonishment to self, don’t think twice, stop overthinking matters, yo. One of my worst habits. Have a whole catalogue of them. I started with the Peter, Paul, and Mary version. Then, thinking about it, I recalled Willie Nelson singing it, so I went hunting for it. Then I found a live version with Bob D. and Eric C. I decided I’d go with it, so here you are.

Stay positive. The day is full of great possibilities. Got my coffee. Time to go do some things. Stay with it. Here’s the tune. Cheers

The Writing Moment

He called it ‘a bad writing day’.

It was challenging and stressful. He didn’t like what he was editing, something he’d written months ago. It seemed good then but the need for deep revisions were obvious.

Disappointed, he struggled through as much as he could and broke it off to save his sanity. In truth, he was relegating the work to his subconscious. The next morning, returning to the manuscript, he understood how to fix that chapter. Coffee was poured. Revising was eagerly resumed.

The Writing Moment

The editing continues. He enjoys a pause to celebrate. It’s been almost three months of editing. He’s reached page 500. One hundred remain. Pure blurt, the youngest addition, he expects the final 100 to be the toughest.

Once that’s done, he’ll begin again. At least two more scrubs are needed. Probably more.

The Writing Moment

He felt like a raiding barbarian as slashed his way through the manuscript. He’d overwritten so much in that first draft, trying to learn the story in all its elements, especially the characters. Now he cut, cut, cut.

Next draft, he would probably need to work on continuity and coherency after all this slashing. But that was for the next draft. He was committed to finishing this one.

The Writing Moment

He worked on a chapter, again, then again. Boredom sank its teeth in him. He found himself chasing clickbait on the net.

A muse slapped him. “Hey. It doesn’t work. It’s not needed. Delete the chapter, fool.”

Well, there it was. He did so, but saved it as a doc. Just in case.

The Writing Moment

His backside had landed on the writing seat. Critically, fresh coffee was at hand with its inspirational aroma. Writing yesterday began like he was trying to unlock a rust-infused iron lock. It became an enjoyable and productive session. In a better mood today, he hoped for like success. You could never tell how it would turn out. The important thing was to attack it and get it done, day by day, session by session.

The Writing Moment

Countdown commenced. Issues such as needing more coffee put the launch on hold once, twice. Finally, the writing day sluggishly took off. He wanted to be done but he wanted this to be good. Work remained before the novel in progress could be considered done or good.

It felt like it was going to a be a long, tedious writing day.

The Writing Moment

Coffee as cold as the outside cement sidewalks was tasted, accepted, swallowed. Another writing session done. He’d written almost a quarter million words in that first exciting blurt phase. It had lasted about seven months. Everything thought up was woven into the narrative. Now, the cooler, methodical revision segment was upon him. After six weeks, he’d completed almost two hundred pages of revising. Four hundred pages remained. Total word count had been chopped to below 190K.

He’d always known multiple chapters were goners. They were nice placeholders for thought and plotting for a while. Now the story was taking shape. The words were more precious. They had to prove themselves as worthy of belonging.

Someday’s Theme Music

Someday has come. Without work, without church, without routines save the one to get out and write again, my world has a narrow scope. Days on end seem the same, domino pieces with the same number of dots in the same order. Specifics like weather change, sometimes adding to the experience. Anyway, we’re planning a cruise — well, looking for one — after putting it off for a few years due to COVID. Just a small cruise, right, to feel the ocean’s roll and look at the expanse and remind myself how tiny I am. We’ll still working on our moving plans, but that’s going to consume a lot of energy. I’m not deeply into it yet.

It’s Sunday, Feb 5, 2023. Breakfast was already consumed, a bit of cantaloup and a cinnamon raisin bagel, and the coffee was drunk. News has been perused. Rain fell through the night, replenishing more local reservoirs and cisterns. Snow accumulates in the snowpack. 40 F now, under a gray crown, looking for 50 later. Sunrise and sunset are 7:20 AM and 5:30 PM. Celebrating a friend’s new grandchild, number four for him. He and his family are very pleased. I’m happy and excited because they’re happy and excited. It’s contagious stuff.

Didn’t sleep well, dealing with floofquests to go in and out, to be fed and petted, loved on and played with. They don’t want to recognize that I’m a day creature. “Come join us at night,” they urge.

“It’s dark and I can’t see,” I reply.

“Don’t worry, we’ll help you. Mind that hairball. It’s fresh.”

A bright moon was a break-out hit at one point. Outside with Papi, enjoying the fresh rain-enlivened air, Papi said, “See? There’s plenty of light. What is that over there? What the hell, I’m out of here.” He scurried back, leaving me standing there and staring, mumbling to myself, “What is it? I don’t see anything. Papi? Papi?”

I was also wringing hands over editing decisions and book directions, cursing my novel as a vile creature that needs to be buried. It’s all good, just the process. A looonnngggg process sometimes. Out of this, The Neurons have directed a song from the last century into the morning mental music stream. “Epic” by Faith No More was released in 1990. I was still assigned to Germany at the time, and the song was hugely popular with the troops rotating in as part of Desert Shield/Desert Storm. It was heard often and loud.

Here’s the music. Stay pos and enjoy Sunday as best as you can. I will. Sort of. Cheers.

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