Day 27: Wherein no break through occured
Words written: 4,039
Books taken off the library shelf and not re-shelved: 5
I am done with you, story. I don't enjoy writing. I enjoy the finishing of the writing. I enjoy re-reading though I seldom do it because it reminds me that I have so much more work to do. I enjoy the top of the page of 750words.com, which is filled with X's because I've written at least the 750 words my whole time here. I am scared to leave. I was scared to come here. It's all scary, all the time.
Four more days, and this one is whittled down to nothing now, almost 5 p.m. I can't see how I will get back to this novel at any time soon unless I make a commitment to go to novel writing workshop next summer. (note: I can't imagine how a library could be louder. This one now has the sound of someone pulling off tape over and over again). I have nothing planned for dinner.
The unfamiliar has become familiar, and I am better than I was the first day, when I was jumping at every sound, waiting for people to show up. Ilse and Tallyke arrived first. Then Shannon. Michelle came the next day, and Raluca came on Monday. Now we are reaching the end and who knows if we'll ever see each other again.
I planned everything ahead of time, all of the books I wanted to bring, not knowing there would be shelves and shelves of books. I made my mother write my name in the covers, so I wouldn't get confused about which ones were mine. I anticipated wanting my own sheets and towels and an extra pillow. I brought treats and food aplenty for Chap, too much. I remembered tampons, extra contact lenses, stationary, stamps, and Advil. A razor, even though I am on a non-shaving strike. I brought three notebooks, filled one and a half and had a back-up when I temporarily lost the red one.
At the Yale writing conference, our last assignment was to write about good-byes. I am always anticipating leaving a place before it happens, so I say goodbye often and too soon. I'll miss the company of other artists, and the bike ride into town, soaring past the houses and curves. I'll miss Talluke, the older dog who navigates not by sight or hearing, but by smell. She often gets confused and goes the wrong way. I'll miss the library, but not the noisiness of this particular library. The barn because it is such a beautiful place. I turn a corner and find something new on the wall I hadn't noticed before. The outdoor shower. Weekends going to art shows, though I did often feel out of place. The time is a gift, but it's also difficult because there is no one here telling me what to do; I have only my own sense of responsibility to answer to and with that comes guilt if I'm not working. I will not miss the ticks, these constant tiny spiders that appear out of nowhere and who I keep believing are running wild and unchecked through my hair. I want to be back in my own bed, but I'm certain that once I'm there, I will miss the one I'm sleeping in tonight.
Books taken off the library shelf and not re-shelved: 5
I am done with you, story. I don't enjoy writing. I enjoy the finishing of the writing. I enjoy re-reading though I seldom do it because it reminds me that I have so much more work to do. I enjoy the top of the page of 750words.com, which is filled with X's because I've written at least the 750 words my whole time here. I am scared to leave. I was scared to come here. It's all scary, all the time.
Four more days, and this one is whittled down to nothing now, almost 5 p.m. I can't see how I will get back to this novel at any time soon unless I make a commitment to go to novel writing workshop next summer. (note: I can't imagine how a library could be louder. This one now has the sound of someone pulling off tape over and over again). I have nothing planned for dinner.
The unfamiliar has become familiar, and I am better than I was the first day, when I was jumping at every sound, waiting for people to show up. Ilse and Tallyke arrived first. Then Shannon. Michelle came the next day, and Raluca came on Monday. Now we are reaching the end and who knows if we'll ever see each other again.
I planned everything ahead of time, all of the books I wanted to bring, not knowing there would be shelves and shelves of books. I made my mother write my name in the covers, so I wouldn't get confused about which ones were mine. I anticipated wanting my own sheets and towels and an extra pillow. I brought treats and food aplenty for Chap, too much. I remembered tampons, extra contact lenses, stationary, stamps, and Advil. A razor, even though I am on a non-shaving strike. I brought three notebooks, filled one and a half and had a back-up when I temporarily lost the red one.
At the Yale writing conference, our last assignment was to write about good-byes. I am always anticipating leaving a place before it happens, so I say goodbye often and too soon. I'll miss the company of other artists, and the bike ride into town, soaring past the houses and curves. I'll miss Talluke, the older dog who navigates not by sight or hearing, but by smell. She often gets confused and goes the wrong way. I'll miss the library, but not the noisiness of this particular library. The barn because it is such a beautiful place. I turn a corner and find something new on the wall I hadn't noticed before. The outdoor shower. Weekends going to art shows, though I did often feel out of place. The time is a gift, but it's also difficult because there is no one here telling me what to do; I have only my own sense of responsibility to answer to and with that comes guilt if I'm not working. I will not miss the ticks, these constant tiny spiders that appear out of nowhere and who I keep believing are running wild and unchecked through my hair. I want to be back in my own bed, but I'm certain that once I'm there, I will miss the one I'm sleeping in tonight.
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| Some light reading for inspiration. |
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| Upside down dog. |
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