Tonight, I started with my main character walking in the woods. It’s actually a patch of woods I know, because it’s right in my town. Next thing I knew, she was remembering my memories, albeit tweaked to fit her. She recalled walking along the beach down on the shoreline, dinner in those eighties-style restaurants with lots of blond wood and ferns, and a bar my friends and I frequented in Westport where we drank white sangria and ate boursin and cheese. (I did say it was Westport.)
Recently, I heard a podcast guest talk about being a “discovery writer.” The term was new to me. The former appellation, which I never liked, was “pantser,” as distinct from a “plotter.” According to common wisdom in the writing world, plotters plan out their books before they begin, often writing lengthy outlines, while pantsers fly by the seat of their pants, writing whatever comes into their heads with no idea what’s coming next.
Even the most mundane aspects of real life can be an inspiration.
Today was a busy day. I spent several hours working on an objection, followed by several hours of errands. The latter had been scrupulously planned, in part because I hadn’t gone food shopping for myself in weeks. Not so much as a wilted lettuce leaf graced the vegetable drawer, while the fruit drawer bore a couple of limes that were discoloring more by the day.
Photo credit: Meine Reise geht hier leider Ende. Ein Neustart beginnt auf on Pixabay
Stolen moments are sometimes the sweetest.
I have plenty to do today. Deadlines continue to abound, including three things due Monday. I haven’t yet sent out bills for work done in May. The errands I meant to do yesterday—and the day before—have yet to be run. Various home maintenance matters require attention, including the roof issue and scheduling the annual air conditioner service.
Before I was out of bed this morning, the phone rang. It was the client for whom I was working on two rush projects, plus two other projects that technically weren’t rushes but which had imminent deadlines. I wasn’t ready for a perky, “So, how’re we doing on [insert project name]?”
“Go to voicemail,” I growled, secure in the knowledge that he couldn’t hear me.
The sooner we learn this fact, the better. (By “we,” I mean me.)
Case in point: my workload was slow for the first half of May. Scary-slow. The kind of slow that makes you think, “Well, this is it. I had a good run, but it’s over.” Like Blockbuster, or the people who made 8-track tapes.
When I was in high school, I wrote constantly. Stories spilled out of my brain, and my pencil was barely swift enough to catch them all. Sprawled on my bed, upright at my desk, out on the swing (where the stories raced around my mind, here and gone in nearly the same instant). Summer nights while the rest of the family slumbered, the hours ticking away as I reveled in my made-up world.