What’s worse than writing? Not writing. I am still working on my manuscript, but I’m not writing. I’m reading some books that I hope will give me an idea of what to write next, or more specifically, how to frame what I write next.
This makes me sound as if I’m orderly and in control, but this is far from the truth. I look at what I have and where I want to go in this writing, and I imagine myself as one of Cheryl Strayed’s boots falling down the fucking mountain.
February is a cruel joke. The sun went behind a cloud between the time it took me to leash up the dog and go down the (interior) stairs and open back the door, and the wind is leftover from January.
In one of the books I’ve been reading, the author says that one of the biggest jokes of science is the impression that things progress in an orderly linear fashion. One scientists sees something strange happen and connects it to a paper she read ten years before and just happens to remember. You theorize things that you don’t have the knowledge or technology to prove. Twenty years later you are vindicated or disproven or someone else claims the idea and has your equation named after him.
My manuscript is the ancient astronomer Ptolemy. The raw data is there (some of which was stolen from the Babylonians), but it needs a better word view and some better fucking tools. And let’s not even talk about terrible extended metaphors.
What’s your bad joke?