Good morning, regular life. No more vacation, cooking like a madperson (or more likely, enabling DP to cook like a madperson), no more visitors bearing booze. I have a class to plan, a doctor’s appointment to show up to, poems to respond to, editorial work to complete, and the Fucker to revise.
I read an article about revising a novel that included the (paraphrased) following: “revising 17 times will not make you a writer any more than wearing tweed.” The article was about revising your novel in one pass. It had a lot of practical advice that I can apply to the Fucker. But then there is the matter of depth. The article is written by a fantasy author. She thinks being a professional is finishing your book and moving on to the next.
This might be true if you are writing scifi/fantasy/urban fantasy (a family of genres I very much enjoy reading), but not so much if you are writing a memoir. In order to be professional while writing a memoir, I have to think through this clearly and figure out what the fuck I’m writing about and how best to tell the story.
When Terry Tempest Williams wrote Refuge, she printed out the parts about her mother’s cancer on white paper and the parts about the bird refuge she loved being flooded on blue paper. She stacked the manuscript and marked where there was too much white or too much blue. I need to do something like that.
Maybe it’s about printing it out and laying it out on my still-extended dining room table. Or maybe it’s post-its with subjects or questions. Or maybe it’s colored paper. I’ll let you know.
What’s going on in your regular life?