Before mercury, my blood used to fill thermometers.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

My heart's made of parts.

Coming up for air on drafting a novel, both the new installment of Very Literary (at witf) and my review of Carina Finn's My Life as a Movie (at Anobium) are more alive than I am these days.

I have been accumulating notes towards this novel forever with the intent to make it big. I take notes more to keep myself spry and forming and considering constantly than to keep records, although I never get rid of anything. I never go back and reread my notes. I have a better attitude towards them than actual drafts. I am at fifty pages now in the draft and fighting the compulsion to stop, go back, and start tightening. I am feeding my desire to lend the aspiring-book a metal back-brace by rifling through my stuff in search of the last round of notes I took, which charged me full of such feelings like I can go take this and make a novel now, this isn't just the same stuff I've been scribbling for a decade now (since a lot of my regular maneuvers came from sophomore year, I have enjoyed intimidating myself with this new reality since the spring: I've been in a fugue all my adult life yet, still like oh my god I started this in Algebra II I better finish it). I took these latest notes instead of surrendering all my concentration to the job I had at the time, at the phone company. Since leaving the phone company, I've moved, and my notebooks are spring-loaded inside this desk that - though reliable, I'm happy to have a desk - is a significant change from the unmovably enormous monster I worked on in my office at my parents' house. I let explode the ones I thought had works-in-progress inside of them, knowing that while I'm basically asleep like I am now, these notes will slip by me easily since they are not neatly within a notebook that I associate by sight with a specific stretch of school or job. They're on a rain-damaged, spiral-bound notepad. Now that it's in my hands I'm staggered at the amount of real note-taking I did to learn to program phone and internet. I all ready forgot a lot of the weird terminology and it's all here. When the internet abruptly stops working sometimes I do distantly wonder do they not know our VCI is in use? and I don't even know what I mean anymore.

And all my notes are in coded language. I should have known.

2 comments:

  1. is the title of this post referring to fiona? i approve. writing a novel is REALLY HARD, to be doing it is massively wonderful. xoxo

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    1. Since I bought it I cannot listen to anything that isn't "Every Single Night." !!! Your encouragement is really heartening and adds more tenderness to the task.

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