Okay, so I’m trying not to think about the thing I can’t write about, but my mind keeps wandering there even though I’ve put the baby gate on that topic.
So I guess I’ll do laundry instead.
Even though this is technically a short week--no school on Friday!--it is going to drag. This getting up early thing is really aging me quickly. I need a nap by 8:30 in the morning. We’re still not far enough into a rhythm yet to maximize those three mornings of 1 precocious 16-month old.
But what I really hope these mornings will provide is a little writing time. I realize that my revised revised novel deadline is Labor Day, and since I don’t think I’ll be able to write 150+ pages for Monday, I’m going to have to revise that deadline once again. Because I want to write like this:
Standing on the stoop, he tucks his gloveless hands in his pockets and looks out onto the dark street. How unyielding is that space between connection and interruption--one false move, one misspoken word, and you find yourself on the wrong side of things.
That’s from Daia Sofer’s, The Septembers of Shiraz, which is heading toward depressing disaster, but passages like that keep me reading anyway.
And writing. How’s Thanksgiving work for everyone?
Happy day to you.