Oedipus and the Sphinx, Gustave Moreau
Is it only Thursday? Was I really off on Monday? Feel like I’m caught in ambergris here. Why isn’t it Friday yet? Is Friday coming? Are you sure? Okay.
Got an uptick in my lovely word meter that I made myself, illustrating it with Leon Spilliaert’s Swans. Something went wrong with the Zokotou I was using so–I like mine better.
As I write A Lamentation of Swans I’m paying attention to how I like to write a book, my way of doing it, so that I understand what the hell it is I’m doing so I can keep doing it without driving myself crazy.
The way I go about it seems scatterbrained, undisciplined, unmethodical, crazy quiltish–but there is a certain pattern in all that discombobulation, I think. I like to start with notes–lots and lots of notes about anything to do with the story–character, or setting, or ideas, or just stuff–and I’ll fill notebooks with these maunderings and mumblings, might spend months or years doing it, then I’ll write a few scenes, maybe a few more, a few might be connected, most will fall somewhere farther down the storyline, not much coherency going on, no clue as to where it’s going. But at some point the story starts to take shape and the novel begins to form–somewhat. That’s how it’s been with Swans and how it’s been with everything I write, even my short story attempts.
I’ve been trying to impose some order, some method ’cause I like making measurable progress, but monkey mind tends to run away with my attempts at disciplining the material so I can get pages done. I hate that running in place feeling but it seems to be the only way I get anywhere.