I bought myself a fake traveler’s notebook with some Christmas money. I finally succumbed. There is a leather cover and four elastics that hold notebooks that you can switch out. There is also a cult following. It’s not a cult, I swear. Ignore my swirling eyes.
I like it because I can carry a weekly planner; a work notebook, which includes teaching notes if I’m teaching, and editing notes if I’m editing; and a writing notebook in which I can put all the stuff I’m writing. (And you can get decorated notebooks and/or put stickers on your notebooks, and put your fancy new rooster card for the Chinese New Year in a clear pocket, and yes, I’m twelve. OK? OK.)
I know you don’t care about my stationery obsessions (except for those of you who do). The point of this post is that my writing notebook is pretty empty. I have a few notes for an article I’m not ready to write. I’ve some thoughts on restructuring the Fucker. I have a few desolate stanzas. And one journal entry.
I’ve been writing almost every day, but it’s been the Small Beer Book. I think this writing is good for my overall writing skills. And I’m getting to be gently snarky, Indy at half-mast. This ultimately good for all of my poetry and nonfiction. However, I have not been thinking critically about what I am doing writingwise and where I am going. I’ve been getting to the computer and writing my X number of words a day and then fainting on the couch from overwork. (I may exaggerate slightly.)
I think one of the hardest things about being a professional writer, by which I mean all of us who write and submit and publish and despair at any level, is recognizing the ebb and flow of our work. There are times for planning, times for writing, times for editing, times to let the field grow fallow.
What mixed metaphor are you?