Up and up
On Sunday I wrote, detouring the route that would take me to the coffee shop again in lieu of sitting in the room I like to call my office and writing there instead. I was happy with the end result and happier with the idea that I was finally, finally close to finishing.
Last week I had discussed getting together with a writing friend and perhaps having dinner. On yesterday we did so, but afterwards the night was still young, his because Monday is his work schedule's version of Saturday, and mine because he is a constant reminder to me of what can happen if one simply leaves oneself open to possibility. After drafting and snipping several plans, we ended up taking our laptops to his office, or might I call it perch. That it is a nice, quiet area full of tables and chairs is not so remarkable, even to say that it's on the 19th floor of a luxury hotel. It's remarkable because my writing friend is terrified of heights.
Yet that is his office. "I was really afraid the first time," he said to me, "actually, I kind of tried to claw my way out of the elevator." He went on to explain how finding his newest writing space was an accident. He had been wandering the area around his apartment when he found the hotel, the site of the annual local sci-fi convention, and after stepping into the elevator he had wanted to go down. As it turned out, the elevator took him to the 19th floor on a whim. I imagine him afflicted with the shakes and flop sweats. Yesterday, I watched him nod his head only a little nervously as we went up, and after we reached the floor I watched him type out a confident 500 words with hardly any hesitation at all.
For me, I completed the draft of my epilogue. I explained to him that it wasn't perfect, but my editing it would have to wait because I was going back to the very beginning, not of that novel but of that series and turning it over and shaking out everything that wasn't working. The last section of the last book could wait. I was glad to be done, and free to think about other things, though I didn't hardly exult. I could see a large portion of the city from my friend's office, and I can't remember the last time I was nineteen stories up anywhere. I had forgotten the kind of scope such a height granted one.
I have a long way to go, is what I'm saying, and I could see it last night. Next on the docket is to get with everyone who lent me their time to read over the draft of my sci-fi novel and to take ample notes. I have more wall space now so I can actually print out the thing page by page and tack each onto walls, draw on them with a red pen with arrows made from fire.
Step at a time, step at a time. A smooth, express elevator would be convenient, even preferable, but I'll get there this way, too.
Last week I had discussed getting together with a writing friend and perhaps having dinner. On yesterday we did so, but afterwards the night was still young, his because Monday is his work schedule's version of Saturday, and mine because he is a constant reminder to me of what can happen if one simply leaves oneself open to possibility. After drafting and snipping several plans, we ended up taking our laptops to his office, or might I call it perch. That it is a nice, quiet area full of tables and chairs is not so remarkable, even to say that it's on the 19th floor of a luxury hotel. It's remarkable because my writing friend is terrified of heights.
Yet that is his office. "I was really afraid the first time," he said to me, "actually, I kind of tried to claw my way out of the elevator." He went on to explain how finding his newest writing space was an accident. He had been wandering the area around his apartment when he found the hotel, the site of the annual local sci-fi convention, and after stepping into the elevator he had wanted to go down. As it turned out, the elevator took him to the 19th floor on a whim. I imagine him afflicted with the shakes and flop sweats. Yesterday, I watched him nod his head only a little nervously as we went up, and after we reached the floor I watched him type out a confident 500 words with hardly any hesitation at all.
For me, I completed the draft of my epilogue. I explained to him that it wasn't perfect, but my editing it would have to wait because I was going back to the very beginning, not of that novel but of that series and turning it over and shaking out everything that wasn't working. The last section of the last book could wait. I was glad to be done, and free to think about other things, though I didn't hardly exult. I could see a large portion of the city from my friend's office, and I can't remember the last time I was nineteen stories up anywhere. I had forgotten the kind of scope such a height granted one.
I have a long way to go, is what I'm saying, and I could see it last night. Next on the docket is to get with everyone who lent me their time to read over the draft of my sci-fi novel and to take ample notes. I have more wall space now so I can actually print out the thing page by page and tack each onto walls, draw on them with a red pen with arrows made from fire.
Step at a time, step at a time. A smooth, express elevator would be convenient, even preferable, but I'll get there this way, too.
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