The Writing Moment
Revision continues. Read. Change. Correct.
Two complicated chapters slowed progress. They remain in need of fixes. But I think their changes should be addressed in context of the entire story. So I press on into the next chapter. Read. Revise.
Those were complicated chapters. And important because of the revelations they delivered. So going through them meant patience and diligence.
But I felt that I lost some of the thread. I wondered if I was confusing myself with attempting too many changes to improve the flow. So, I want to let those chapters slip out of mind and see how they read the next time they’re approached in their natural order.
Page 306 is under scrutiny. The main protagonist is enduring an unidentified illess. Going through the prose affects me. Empathizing with the character, nausea and lethargy overtakes me. Dryness spreads from my lips, invading my mouth, takes over my tongue, slipping into my throat. My eyes grow weary. I want to stop.
But there are goals. There must be discipline. The goal for today’s session is to reach page 330, a completely arbitrary number presented to the pscyhe because I work better with order, structure, and goals, a condition of my personality and my work history.
After page 330 is reached, eighty pages will remain.
First, I’m going on a break. Stretch. Walk in the sunshine. Breathe in, as the character tells himself, breathe out. Like the song “Machinehead” by Bush: breathe in, breathe out.
I’m not looking for perfection. I just want to be happy with the story.
Sunday’s Wandering Thoughts
A woman in the coffee shop accosted me today. We’re both regulars. We see each other there, sometimes nodding. I’m always at a table, using a table to write. She’s a few years older than me and typically buys something to eat, checks her phone, and reads a book.
Today, we said hello. I was in the midst of revising a page. She asked, “I notice you always a wear a green hat.”
I do; it’s a Tilly. I nodded.
“Is there a reason for why you wear it?”
Deeply seriously, I replied, “Yes. It has a foil lining built into it.”
Puzzlement folded into her expression. “A foil lining?”
“Yes, you know, to protect me.”
She studied me. I think she was trying to decide if I was joking. Smiling and nodding, I returned to my writing.
The Publishing Dream
Note: this is about a nocturnal dream about being published, and not a RL goal.
It was a pleasant fall day. Walking among a bustling crowd, my wife and I met with my mother and stepfather (SF). All of us were much younger than RL by a margin of several decades, and my stepfather has been dead for a decade.
We were going to watch a soccer game and have a meal. As we met, we came up on a large box. Cast iron, it was painted with black enamel, and contained hundreds of post office lock boxes. SF said, “By the way, Mike, you received some mail at my address.” He made a vague gesture toward the black box.
“I did?” I was surprised beyond words. Receiving mail at his address seemed as implausible as a demon army invading.
“Yes, two, I think,” SF answered.
“Can I have them?”
“Yeah you can have them.”
But SF was going on. Mom had already gone on. They didn’t want to miss the game’s start and were impatient. I asked my SF for his mailbox combo. He didn’t answer and kept going.
But I saw a key. I assumed that what I’d received was too large for his lockbox, so they’d put it in a larger one and gave my SF the key for it. Seizing the key, I went and opened a larger lockbox and withdrew a large yellow envelope with my name on it. Tearing it open, I learned it was an acceptance letter from a publisher. They’d accepted my submission, “Beyond the Lines”, and wanted to publish it, and were offering me a contract for three more.
The offer letter also said that I needed to respond by the deadline. The deadline was today. Fortunately, they included a link to type in to accept the agreement electronically.
I was tremendously excited. I’d forgottent that I’d submitted anything. I didn’t understand how my SF’s address was mixed up with it. Naturally, I didn’t want to go on to a soccer game. I wanted to go and celebrate. But my wife pointed out that I’d made committments, so we continued to the game.
Dream end.
The dream surprised me. My stepfather and I did not get along. He was a major reason for moving away from Mom in my mid-teens. He is the father of my two youngest sisters, and I love them dearly, but I have no love for him and had not seen him in decades before he died.
Also, we never went to a soccer game. He showed no interest in soccer. I showed little myself, for that matter. And he never met my wife.
So, I take hope and insight from the dream that publishing help will come from unexpected means and directions. I remain an optimist.
Michael Seidel, writer 