It’s rainy and I have no friends. (Maybe that’s an exaggeration.) It’s been raining on and off today and I have no social plans. My office
dining room table is clean(ish) for once. We ran errands early in the day and went out for breakfast. In short, I had no excuse.
I was going to dive right into The Fucker and reorganize it. Several chapters needed to be shattered and rearranged. And so I printed out 50 pages on one side of the paper only. Then I got my sarcastic post-its (courtesy of my brother-in-law), scissors, and a stapler (because I couldn’t find tape).
I cut that Fucker into pieces. I laid it out on the clean three-quarters of the table, and reassembled with the stapler and a few arrows saying “put this here!”. Then I slapped a big red post-it, the one that says “DUH” on the top of each thing that resembled a chapter. Sometimes I had a stapled chapteret that I knew would fit in a larger chapter any minute. I assembled enough chapters to form a section. Then I entered my changes into the computer.
Do you remember the Monty Python (?) skit about the world’s funniest joke? Well, it’s so funny that people die laughing while reading it. So it gets translated a few words at a time from the original German. One woman translated four words and was in the hospital for a week.
I considered doing more, but I stopped. It’s like the world’s funniest joke, only not funny. I don’t want to spend all afternoon writing about things that make me sad. I don’t want to deal with my own emotional fallout. So one day, one section, about 45 pages. Although I could do more, I’m not going to. Moderation. Writers aren’t supposed to know what that is.
Could this be encroaching maturity or rather just bitter experience? Are they different?