La Fileuse, John William Waterhouse
5,492/60,000, November Novel Rewrite. The wind in Century City is tiresome, always blowing when it should be still, when it should leave the mild sunlight alone, and let a body sit in soothing warmth. I wish I had days to sit still and let my mind tip into the writing, let it slip into a skin of words and images and stay there for as long as it needs. The weekend is not enough; stolen bits of time–fifteen minutes, a half hour, an hour or two is not enough. Too soon, just around the turn of clock hands, stands my fractured days, my broken schedule. The constant breaking and reknitting of my focus fills me with resentment, leaves me tired of the ceaseless wrestling with the octopus of workaday life.
I worked on the Deidre/Randall novel during the weekend, created a rough Chapter Two, a restless amoeba of words focusing on Randall, changing shape in the writing. Last week I finished Ann Patchett’s Bel Canto. I loved this book, but the ending jarred me a bit, the shock of finding that it was over. Last night I finished Ann Packer’s The Dive From Clausen’s Pier, and started Mary Gaitskill’s Veronica.
Last night too, after I’d put down Veronica and clicked off the lamp, I laid awake for most of the night, well into the pre-dawn hours, and I’ve no idea why sleep abandoned me in such a callous manner, left me staring at the dark behind my eyes.
