Day 241 of #ayearofwriting and I have been running on adrenaline since my Dad was taken into hospital and his death five days later. Now I have crashed and my back is racing towards a bloody spasm which I am fighting off with drugs, exercise and a mix of hot and cold baths (the latter reminding me of my teenage years). In between all this I am reading the creative writing book, Wonderbook by Jeff Vandermeer. It’s sumptuous and the advice is great, I have not been this excited by a craft text since Zen & The Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury.
Day 242 of #ayearofwriting and part of the downside of being a writer is joint problems. I have a partial missing disc in my lower back and this does lead to some awful pain. This means I only sit at a screen for part of the day and after that I am an active scribbler. People with back pain will tell you that the pain becomes so great you have to laugh when you’re flailing around like a turtle on its back but out of this comes an awareness that in pain there is beauty.
Day 243 of #ayearofwriting and in my story I have to consider the nature of lovers when one is something she shouldn’t be.
Day 244 of #ayearofwriting and dialogue is like the wearing of multiple hats but from the mirror’s point of view. Then you get in the argument of:
After Freud and cognitive therapy there is an argument for the latter.
Day 245 of #ayearofreading and today someone asked me why I thought reading was important. ‘Because it is sexy,’ I replied without thinking. You know, it is. Someone who reads for pleasure takes pleasure in words, is often able to think for themselves and state why they read. Reading is so damn sexy.
Day 246 of #ayearofwriting and I am piecing this strange story of an old woman in a young woman’s body, of a house that is old within an overgrown garden, of limbs that die when they receive emotional trauma and the strangeness of the square dancing that brings together two worlds. I am interested in the strange in the everyday, the unexpected finds.
Day 247 of #ayearofwriting and after the passing of my Dad, a back spasm and a summer ending in a way that no one in my family expected. I am still writing through it all, it may come slowly on some days, but I am trying to make it constant. I find the vignette style of writing easier, small moments, small objects, small talk that comes to hand and can be crafted. Sometimes these moments lead to nothing but building the world of the story, sometimes they build the character and sometimes they reveal something shocking. They are something between the world of dreams and waking up, they are the pensee. They are the broken down house of the moor, not a house, not landscape, caught in between.
Day 248 of #ayearofwriting and something strikes me as an idea for the end of the story I am working on. I have people who under emotional stress or loss – seems odd that I was writing this story when my Dad died – lose limbs, that parts of them become fossilized. I wonder whether in a sudden moment of pain whether the entire body would turn to stone and that the individual becomes almost a shrine figure. This is how I build stories and worlds, these odd, what if? moments.