Ariadne in Naxos, Evelyn De Morgan (1877)
Rainstorm blustering through this Sunday afternoon. I spent five hours cooking–made two quiches, one spinach, one mushroom and leek, and a meat sauce for pasta with fresh tomatoes, oregano, and garlic. Cooking for the work week on Sundays strikes a blow against the zombie run’s greedy gulping of my time and energy.
Watched a strange little film yesterday–The Ceremony. Really couldn’t figure out what was going on until nearly the end. The movie began oddly so deeply in medias res that I thought the download mistakenly began 30 minutes in. Anyway, it was spooky and annoyingly filmed mostly in the dark with long moments where the screen would go completely black–making me mutter stuff to Levi, who, by the way, threw up all over my bed the other evening. Nothing like dragging myself in from the coils of the 405 tired and hungry and having to clean up cat vomit and strip the bed while Levi complacently ate his dinner. Never mind mine.
Sitting down to write, I always think I must WRITE THE STORY–even if I don’t quite know what I’m going to write, or what comes next. Of course I sit staring, watching the block build itself brick by brick. This is where writing practice comes in–the mindful showing up and writing whatever comes to mind. I may know a certain story question, but not its answer or I might’ve seen a plot issue looming or a story point that could lead to more but have no idea how to get there. Getting there is what writing practice, its joy and usefulness, is all about. Since The Foreigner is behaving like a recalcitrant two-year old, I was delighted to discover writing outside the story–a kick in the pen when the bricks are stacking up and the pen is at a standstill, and if you wonder why writing practice, Judy Reeves gives a good answer.