Woke up to rain and blustery wind this morning; now the sky’s a bowl of blue, full of great big dark cumulus, fluffy edges luminous with sunlight. At Trader Joe’s yesterday, bought a bag of blood oranges; the price of regular oranges burned my fingertips. Juiced them this morning; to my surprise, they turned out to be wonderfully tart with a mellow edge, definitely not sweet, but not nearly as razorish as regular oranges can be sometimes. The juice is a lovely garnet, close in color to pomegranate juice but not translucent, and more garnet-purple than garnet-black. (Though my juicer looked like I’d had a terrible accident.)
I guess they’re not often used for juicing; have never seen a bottle of blood orange juice for sale. (What do vampires have for breakfast? –Sorry; couldn’t resist.) At a $1.99 for a bag of ten, they were cheaper than a bag of regular oranges. They’d make a gorgeous marmalade too.
Today’s work is A Lamentation of Swans. I’m going to comb through the manuscript, and note what I’ve got and what I need, scene by scene. With my new job coming up and the gift of morning time, and the multitude of scenes crowding and jostling the space between the ears, I’m revising my resolution to write every day; instead, I’m committing to write 1000 words on A Lamentation of Swans, five days a week, that’s four pages each morning–and Sunday will be one of the days. This will allow me “down time” without feeling guilty, and I can use the other two days to make progress on my research reading as well as fiddle with A Geometry of Vapor. Also, it’s nearing time for me to pull out Silk River and get to work rewriting it.
Also, I’m not going to play the “catch up” game; if I have a missed morning, then it’ll be a missed morning. Each morning will be a new day for the 4 pages.
I’m halfway through An Instance of the Fingerpost. The bad guy is such a despicable man, yet I’m not sure if he’s the murderer. I like the way the book is structured, and admire how Pears managed to handle the cornucopia of material that make up the narrative. Actually, I’m downright envious.
A Lamentation of Swans has a similar range of material that must be woven into the narrative, and I don’t know how I’m going to do it; I’ll keep writing and I expect it’ll sort out by the finish. Anyway, it’s a bit after eleven. The brass bell has rung and the novel’s circling the mat.