I submitted my chapbook, graded my papers, dealt with some issues unrelated to writing and editing, chilled the fuck out, and now it’s time to work on the fucker again. I should be relieved.
As I finished my coffee, I was pleased that there was nothing more pressing for me to do today than to work on the Fucker and to deal with the leaves in my yard. (These are great companion activities. I do one until I can’t handle it any longer, and then I shift to the other until I can’t handle it any longer.)
My pleasure evaporated the second I realized where I was in the manuscript. Oh, that section. I printed it out because otherwise I would be transcribing eighteenth century whaling documents for the good of science in 2.3 seconds.
This is not going to be an hour of admiring my own writing. Nor will it be a time of making a few small changes. This is what they call in the business, heavy lifting: rethinking, reorganizing, rewriting, reupping my meds.
So it’s me, my paper, the dragons, and a yard full of leaves. You may take your bets as to who is still standing by 5:00 this evening. Until then.