Sunday, September 7, 2014

Medicine from morpheus

Chapter 8 is drafted. I have my eye on 10 being a stopping point, to go back and see how this rewrite is taking shape. By the time I get there, I imagine the draft so far will be well over 30,000 words. Somewhat predictably, because the setting isn't contemporary, but speculative, much of it has to be described within the prose. Where chapters of my modern novels hovered around 2500, this time around they're in the ballpark of 3500. Not sure why I find that interesting. The more people I meet and conversations I have, the less I find these sorts of ideas to be commonplace.

I had a dream that spurned me to act on the email sent to all previous applicants of a writing contest I continue to fail to place in, or get an honorable mention, on an annual basis. Such behavior compels me to clarify the definitions of sadism and masochism, just for my own edification. One of the ideas I've had going in was to pump the brake more on the quiet wondering and tap on the accelerator in regards to the flashier, overt conflicts. We'll see if it makes a difference. In the mean time, it would be really nice to find a publication somewhere that was receptive to how I naturally go about telling stories.

Work has been interesting. The premise of education in my state has been less neutral, more decidedly negative. Grad school applications loom, and the shadows are not the least bit helpful even given the summer climes. Yesterday I attended a retirement celebration for my old boss. The first day of the rest of his life. He survived with a few dozen gray hairs and one of his original hips. Should be a pleasant enough twilight. It made me wonder how long, and hard, I would have to work before I could rest on my laurels. Guess that's pretty presumptuous, that I'll have some to rest on.

Which brings me to relocation. Unlike anyone else that I know, I don't have a spouse or own property. I am unequivocally unattached to anything save for my crippling home-body-ness. I lament that the next few months may very well be a turning point in my life when all I seem to have to go on is "well, this seems like it might work out." A friend of mine experiences this phenomenon when he plays video games that have choice-driven narratives. If given a choice, he likes to go down one path, reload a previous save, then make a different choice. Ironically, I find it completely acceptable to go on feeling, and let things work out how they'll work out. I assume it's because I know it isn't real, that it won't affect me deeply either way. But in real life, there are years we can never get back, tens of thousands of dollars we may never see again.

The longer I live, the list of things I'm sure of becomes shorter and shorter. But, I still feel better when I write, and it still seems right to feel better. 

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