Day 177

I have been writing my novel for almost 6 months.  Wow.  That feels both short and long at at the same time.  An accomplishment in time, but a failure in work produced.

Today, I want to write to support public libraries.  I'm not on a soap box, but never have I written so much in one week on this novel as I have a week ago.

After Labor Day, I was determined not to spend countless hours in my room goofing off.  My younger sisters had all returned to school at that point and the house is dead quiet.  A bad quiet.  My house is so often full of noise that it has become a normal auditory backdrop, and when absent, I cannot concentrate.

So, I go to the library. Where it is quieter than my house.

I woke up around 10:00am every day (a stark contrast to noon) and drove to the library and wrote until I was hungry for lunch.  I was usually there until 12:30pm.  I was able to concentrate.

It was such a blessing!  I sat in the quiet section at one of the tables, not even in one of the cubbies where you can block yourself out, but at a table, facing the thick tome-like reference books on American History and The History of Drama, and wrote.  I wrote about 5 pages a day, on average, for four days.  I normally write that much in three weeks.

Hooray!

The writing wasn't horrible either.  Even better.

The trick to this was that I practiced my professor's dutiful advice.  Ron Carlson would always say, "Stop writing at a place where you know you can start again."  I have the habit of stopping at the end of a scene or the chapter.  It makes me feel like I have accomplished something.  That week, I stopped writing in the middle of conversations.  I would reach the end of the scene, feel like it was a good place to stop, and tell myself to write one more page.  Then, I would be stuck in the middle of the next scene.  I would stop, come back the next morning, and feel like I was literally "picking up from where I left off."  Amazing.  Funny how simple the advice and how big the effects.

This past week, I was offered a temporary "full-time" position with temporary days off, and I had no time to write.  Such a stark contrast.  I was itching to write all this past week, but stupid 2 hour commutes per day and 8 1/2 hours at work and three scheduled dinner dates and an iTouch with addicting word games led to no productivity.

My fault.

I almost wish I didn't have a job again.  Then I could write.

Snippet

The father watched his only daughter climb out of the car and walk down the cement pathway lit by ankle high solar lamps stuck in the flowerbeds that lined it.  She walked down the path to the unfamiliar doorway that the father did his best to avoid.  Her backpack of school books and homework was slung over one shoulder and her duffle bag of her gym clothes, soccer gear, and other necessities swung from the opposite hand. 

She reached the bottom step of the porch and turned around to wave.  The father felt a squeezing pain and caught a breath.  He was glad he was in the car so she couldn’t see the tear that had managed out of the corner of his eye.  He waved back at her and turned the key in the ignition to drive away before the woman that was now a stranger opened the door to let her daughter in.