Writing, writing, writing .
Sometimes-a lot of the time-I feel like I will never finish this project. The honest truth is that writing about my life is hard. I don’t want to dredge up the shit. But a’dredging we shall go, because I know intuitively that the only way through the stuck and sticky spaces is to write what I did down.
It’s not light material. But the story is good. Even I like reading the finished parts. I think the structure of a book is just hard. Things have to make sense in a different way than writing essays and blog posts.
I need to remember that I have, in fact, written a novel. I’m also considering writing sequels for it, because it was not as hard as writing a memoir. Perhaps having two going simultaneously is a good choice.
For now I’m getting in my warm bed and hiding from the blustery cold. While I sleep I’m going to let the ideas go to rest inside my head.
You can’t plant me in your penthouse
-Elton John + Bernie Taupin
I’m going back to my plough
Back to the howling old owl in the woods
Hunting the horny back toad
Oh, I’ve finally decided my future lies
Beyond the yellow brick road