This morning, two eagles were playing in the winds above the river. No photos; I couldn't bring myself to stop watching long enough to bring up the camera.
So you get Crow, instead.
This particular crow posed and chatted with me for quite awhile. Then I said thank you, and it nodded, and we went our separate ways.
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That blue & white bowl is for -- get this -- organic lollipops. Yep, I actually bought such a thing, on my pre-Halloween Good Food Store NaNoWriMo preparation shopping trip. I kept reading about all the food one consumes during this marathon, what makes the best snacks, on and on -- so, among several other things, I got these.
As it turns out, I don't actually eat while I write. How does one do that, anyway? Both hands are busy on the keyboard. But lollipops -- those work. One or two fruity lollipops per day.
If I'd thought about it, I would have realized that I never have eaten while I write -- even when writing by hand. Though occasionally I write while I eat. A different thing entirely.
Niki asked in a comment: Will we see results of your writing here at the end of the month?
And the answer is . . .
Um, no.
Because. Because I am writing without expectation. Because it is an exercise. Because I've no idea if there will be anything worth sharing -- and if there is, it will take several months, at a guess, to get it into shape.
Just now I am confronting the necessity to kill off a character I love. The necessity is as organic as those lollipops, and as unintended. I didn't resist the lollipops, but I am resisting this ... murder.
Story writing is so different from poem writing. More different than I had anticipated. One difference, for me, is that I'm avoiding reading fiction. In fact, I'm hardly reading anything. When I am writing poems, I am reading poems, with no fear that some other voice will intrude on my own; quite the contrary, nothing inspires a poem for me like reading other people's work. But now I am cautious, wary.
It will be interesting to see how -- if -- this experience changes the way I read novels, once I do so again. I've never read with a critic's eye; I tend to fall into a book, and then fall out of it at the end. It has to be pretty bad for me to watch it while I read it. But I suspect I am going to be more attentive to things like structure and plot and character development from now on.
Just don't take the magic away...
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Ah, I know just how he feels. For more photogenic critters, try:
Friday Ark
I and the Bird
Carnival of the Cats
Carnival of the Dogs
Circus of the Spineless
Weekend Cat Blogging
Weekend Dog Blogging
LisaViolet's Tummy Tuesday
Kitty Movie Monday at YouTube
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Poetry Thursday had a really great prompt this week, but I don't have the time or energy it deserves just now. I did do my usual snapshot poem yesterday, and I'm going to send you to a current, ongoing conversation at The Well with poet and novelist Mary Mackey:
Mary Mackey is the author of four previous collections of poetry and eleven novels. Some of her works have been published by small literary presses; some have made The New York Times bestseller list. The poems in her new collection, "Breaking the Fever" (Marsh Hawk Press; www.marshhawkpress.org) have been praised by poets Wendell Berry, Jane Hirshfield, Dennis Nurkse, Marge Piercy, and Al Young for their beauty, precision, originality, and extraordinary range. Sometimes lyrical and mystical, sometimes autobiographical, sometimes fierce, and at times even shocking, Mackey's crisp-edged perceptions are, as Hirshfield has noted: "set down with a sensuous, compassionate, utterly unflinching eye."
Non-members are welcome: Join us, or email questions and conversational contributions to the Inkwell.vue hosts. This is a great discussion so far, which is the standard at The Well. If, after hanging out there a bit, you would like to explore The Well further, drop me a note.
[Today - including the middle of last night: 2274 words. So far: 39,506 words.]
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I dream of moving
to a smaller house.Why not live in my
grandmother's house?A man takes me to
some cave-like place,lays out his complaints,
his sad stories. Who isthe enemy? I begin
to accept that I havelimits. So much
I won't be ableto bring with me. But
this palomino horse!
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OK, OK, I know; once a week is enough for cats. But give me a break, I'm busy.
Just for November.
OK?
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I am still writing, and managing some kind of daily post -- but what has suffered is keeping up with you. I am not commenting, not because of my usual circumspection, but because I am not there. Aside from the few days around the election, I have barely been online. A bit of skimming here and there, and that's about it.
Yesterday began badly, with much pain and little enthusiasm. I gave myself permission to skip writing, but pushed myself though taffy to get to the local NaNoWriMo meeting -- and I'm so glad I did. They listened, they encouraged, and I came home feeling much better, re-energized.
I told my poetry mentor last week that my 'novel' has the same problem that my poems often do: a poverty of verbs, a paucity of action. Then one of the NaNoWriMo cohorts said that literary fiction is focused more on character and less on plot. Clearly, that is what I'm writing.
Literary fiction. Yes, indeed.
And when I'm not being literary, I am staring at undemanding TV. Mostly house & garden TV. All visuals, little thinking. My brain is sort of -- dense -- right now. I realized, during this morning's walk, that I'm not even taking photos. I walk along, thinking about this unreal world I am making, and not of the real one I'm walking through.
Three more weeks of this, more or less.
I hope you'll stick through it with me. Wait -- I hope you'll stick with me through it. This.
Gosh, I'm tired.
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