(Hey, how's it going? Turned in my book, graded approximately one.million.papers, lost 10 pounds, finished The Magicians series. You?)
I don't know what to say here anymore. I really don't. Writing has become something strange in my life, an animal that morphs from obligation to addiction to obsession to something evil that I avoid at all costs. No, not evil. Just draining. I need to get away sometimes to
Yeah, that's it. Refill the well.
But today it just so happens that I have a few extra drops to spare.
Not many, but some.
I've started something new. My voice is changing like I'm an adolescent boy, trying out a deeper tone, and it's fine it's fine until SQUEAK! it's not. It's almost painful, or it will be for a paragraph or two, until I let myself breathe and the words come. They are coming, slowly, but they are there, as well as the story, looming before me, in outline only. Loose plot points, connect the dots. The stars.
I thought maybe I'd do NaNoWriMo, but no, I'm pacing myself a bit more moderately. 1,000 words a day; that's something I can manage in the hour or so between school and home. The time in between, when I've taken off my teaching hat (which I imagine is something rather Mary Poppins-ish) and before I put on my mothering one (Mickey Mouse ears? hairnet?).
An hour is more time than you think.
And an hour plus an hour plus an hour, well, it's everything.
So here's to minutes stolen, kept hidden, safe.
May they mate and multiply and manifest into something truly memorable.