That blue spring haze in the grassy corner of the acre is lovely squill...I have watched this patch grow from a few blue stars here and there, to a skirt around the foot of one of the Norway spruces...it's been a lovely day...
Just when I thought all my crocuses were done in by the summer-like heat that we had last week, I found this lovely girl sitting up tall in a shady place where she was protected...I love her delicate lavender stripes and purple throat!Dusty Waters received another good review on Goodreads from one of my giveaway winners. She says that she will keep my little ghost story on her library shelf forever...I wrote her a thank you note, telling her she just made my day. I could just cry sometimes. It's readers like this who I write for...
Through Library Thing I followed a link to an LA Times essay by Dani Shapiro A Writing Career Becomes Harder to Scale http://articles.latimes.com/2010/feb/07/entertainment/la-ca-endurability7-2010feb07 I nodded my head, grumbled various curses that weren't so nice and muttered, mmmm-hmmm, oh I know...I've had my share of uncertainty, rejection, and disappointment to feel what she wrote all too keenly. The essay pretty much lays out why I've gone ahead and taken my writing career into my own hands, I can't compete with the block-buster bestseller mentality that the industry is courting, I have no grand delusions of making millions and running myself ragged in the process to please the corporate mentality who'd cut me off without a care about my goals or creative well-being. Making money has poisoned the beauty of the creative process...now I know this might sound like a pie-in-the-sky ideal, but I went into writing my novels feet first into the reality of the creative situation, there's no money in it...Grandpa Gordon said as much about my going to art school when I was eighteen and thought I knew everything about it, but in spite of my being such a know-it-all, I believed him because he was a good business man, and very wise. So I became determined, stubborn, "endurability" as Dani Shapiro calls it. I sit at my desk night after night, muttering my mantra, "practice, persistence, patience" and I go forward. I keep a day job to pay the bills (thankfully, I happen to like it well enough, not everyone is so fortunate.) I squeeze in the time to write on my own time. The words tumble from the keyboard onto the screen, and I work them until I'm satisfied with the image they create. I've been seen carting around a ream or so of printed paper, bleeding with red ink, post-it notes fluttering around the edges, as I make my way through another draft toward a finished book. You know, I could cry sometimes because I'm so happy to be doing something that I love so much...and so I go forward, one book at a time to one reader at a time.
And so here it is, another week has gone by and once again, I have set aside The Fractured Hues of White Light, yes, once again, maybe for the last time. I've passed the new changes on to my Fred to update the proof in InDesign, and we'll go over them in due time. I'm very tired, very satisfied, I do believe this is it. I finally found that one last thing that was bothering me way way back near the beginning of chapter one (in a sense it felt so buried that it felt 'way back' rather right there in the front!) It was a solitary sentence that seemed unattached to the words around it. So I fiddled with it all day yesterday, cut and paste, re-writing, reading, leaving it for an hour or two to do other things, revisiting, re-working, juggling words around, trying other arrangements, reading the section of the chapter while asking myself, WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY HERE? I took lots of walks with Max around the acre, giving my brain a rest...who would think that one little sentence in a paragraph could be so much trouble? Well, it is trouble no longer, there is harmony there now, and I'm happy. It's a labor of love writing a book, a study in patience...I could never expect anyone to understand the joy and sorrow, the ups and downs that I experience while writing a book. In spite of the frustrated mutterings and the gritting of teeth, pensive stares and burning eyes, worry lines and deep sighs, it's done to my satisfaction. She's closer to being published than ever, and I'm blissfully happy. Possibly in time for my birthday I'll have a new book in hand! One with a yellow cover...Sammy's color.
3 comments:
Love your blog -- will visit often -- beautiful photography -- and will look into that book of yours -- there is nothing better then a good Ghost Story,
Joanny
Progress feels like balm to the soul, doesn't it. I can feel your pain or should I say I can empathize with your pain.
And your crocus looks so fragile, so delicate yet bold enough to put her head up to the sky.
I think that I have adopted your mantra. There are days when I push myself to keep going to find the right color or "finding" to make the new project complete in my view. Or as we said in the '60's, keep on trucking.
Like your beautiful, singular crocus, you, too have a lovely purple throat that sings in your writing. I can barely wait for your new book.
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