Harvest in the Vineyard, Samuel Palmer

41,479, Loose Daddy. Since last week I’ve been reading Burghild Nina Holzer’s journal, A Walk Between Heaven and Earth. I’ve learned from her journal entries not to treat my journal like an army sergeant to whom I must report, but to write in the moment without premeditation. Here and in my hand journal I’ve written ideas for stories, complained, bored myself, and eased my mind. Not reporting, simply writing.

Yesterday morning I was feeling aggravated about Loose Daddy. So close to finishing the rewrite but can’t seem to get it done. There I sat at the Starbucks, early on a work day morning, sunlight piercing the glass of the long windows making up the front walls of that particular Starbucks, and dazzling my eyes. There were accidents on the northbound 405 that morning and traffic was choked up coming out of Long Beach. I was late getting to Century City, late to my morning session. I’ve been writing many notes about Loose Daddy, working it out between thought and paper–the narrative seems to be at a standstill, but it’s really not. It’s like a salmon caught in a stream. It doesn’t look like it’s moving at all, but it is; it’s pushing against the flow of resistance and moving forward inch by inch.

Today I’m home because it’s Rosh Hashanah and the boss has closed the office. I’m working on Loose Daddy, and can see my way to the final scene, but first new stepping stones must pave the way, and I’m struggling to get them laid.


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