I’ve had a busy week—being new in town, even in a town I’ve lived before for two years, takes up different energy and creates different energy as well. I look at things already with nostalgia—we’ll be leaving just in a few short months. There are new buildings, new people, the same snow covered hills.
The kids have settled into a routine of watching old Russian cartoons before bed, and this leaves me with a good couple of hours of writing time. Or doing nothing time. Doing nothing is still doing something—so I sit and think and try to weave my novel, my characters’ stories in my head, while my baby sleeps on my lap. I sometimes wish I could write novels in 3-D, with things happening simultaneously on different facets. Does this make sense? I don’t know.
Last night I saw my novel as an unraveling scarf, and it totally made sense, but this morning, when I tried to imagine it again, and to bring back the thoughts that came with this image, nothing happened.
I just finished a short chapter, only about 800 words, to be expanded. I noticed that my writing style is different, but I’m not worried yet. Anything goes in the first draft.
This is *exactly* how I feel. Wonderful, wonderful post. Thank so much for stopping by and sharing.
ReplyDeleteFound you on Mothering. Was thrilled to see this post as I've never heard someone else say what I feel too. Hello there, my other.
ReplyDeleteThat's awesome! I too read your comment, and could identify with so much. I "know" you on MDC. Well, your username ;-).
ReplyDeleteWatching Nu Pogadi?
ReplyDeleteCould've been Nu Pogodi! :-)
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