Today’s focal accomplishment was not the coconut rice, though it remains a favoured dish in the menu rounds. Too much concentration focused on the compilation of a folder, in which, page by page, fresh from the printer, a novel was stored.
My novel, not often discussed. Brainwashing or true belief, I’m not sure, only A Writer Writes: a writer does not talk of writing, this is wasting writing time. Except for those moments when I fume about synopsis and blurb, they are functional safety vents.
Only one chapter went in to the folder backwards, and this (bloop 1) was remedied swiftly. The other two bloops were in the rice. I double salted (bloop 2) and though I did not forget the chilli, I did neglect to chop it into less than one whole piece (bloop 3) which gave Houseguest Ben quite the surprise.
Sets of three being culturally usual here, I am hoping that this pepper incident is the last bloop for today. Small things all, set against the general malaise over the loss of our cat, and that solid block of printed text locked in a lever arch.
Of all the reasons: I wanted to, I needed to, the story sought me out, the convergence of lives, the celebration of it: the one that needles most, here, now, that is causing squeamish concern: I wanted things to change. For something to be caused by this work, something that progresses our lives, here, soon. It would be easier to hide it away, to dodge the potential for failure. To stay as we are as though we had no choice, to let circumstance do all the failing on my behalf.
There will moments of backwards, oversalt, hot shocking mouthfuls: the bloops will roam in threes or herds: those pages need a good edit: but they are here, now, and mentioned: mistake, failure, catalyst, we’ll see…
My novel, not often discussed. Brainwashing or true belief, I’m not sure, only A Writer Writes: a writer does not talk of writing, this is wasting writing time. Except for those moments when I fume about synopsis and blurb, they are functional safety vents.
Only one chapter went in to the folder backwards, and this (bloop 1) was remedied swiftly. The other two bloops were in the rice. I double salted (bloop 2) and though I did not forget the chilli, I did neglect to chop it into less than one whole piece (bloop 3) which gave Houseguest Ben quite the surprise.
Sets of three being culturally usual here, I am hoping that this pepper incident is the last bloop for today. Small things all, set against the general malaise over the loss of our cat, and that solid block of printed text locked in a lever arch.
Of all the reasons: I wanted to, I needed to, the story sought me out, the convergence of lives, the celebration of it: the one that needles most, here, now, that is causing squeamish concern: I wanted things to change. For something to be caused by this work, something that progresses our lives, here, soon. It would be easier to hide it away, to dodge the potential for failure. To stay as we are as though we had no choice, to let circumstance do all the failing on my behalf.
There will moments of backwards, oversalt, hot shocking mouthfuls: the bloops will roam in threes or herds: those pages need a good edit: but they are here, now, and mentioned: mistake, failure, catalyst, we’ll see…
Comments
"No."
"He lived happily ever after."