One of those days.

Sky wants to rain, but hasn’t made up its mind. Air is heavy with unfamiliar perfumes. Room needs a lamp against the gloom. No one who is going to be here today—to fix, finish, repair, measure—has arrived.

It’s one of those days of being where I will be rather than where I am. The tasks ask. Waiting is all.

The chapter raps at the inside of my head. Such jeopardy there, in the desperate realization this section represents for the main character…such jeopardy for me, in the need for a tour de force that hasn’t yet found its way into the page.

At ten o’clock last night, I was still poking at it, reluctant to let the workday go; still tweaking, adding, toggling, surprised by the quality of what I’d managed to come up with despite the distractions of the day, wanting to keep at it, knowing how far I still have to go.

I want it over—the move, not the book. Finishing the book will be the painful tearing-away that it always is. No, it is life that I want to be ordered and right. So I can disappear into the story again.

The daily challenges of the page are surprisingly similar to the challenges of the move. The overwhelming jumble of it. The sheer unknown of it. The many-layered tasks. The hidden problems. Yet, the solutions are similar, too. Doing a bit at a time. Standing back and looking at the bigger issue. Patience. Self-forgiveness. A belief that all will be well, eventually.

Getting nowhere and getting there fast. Wanting versus being. Dealing rather than worrying. Days like this are akin to treading air.

 

 

Oh, and while I’m at it, since we have so many new visitors:

This was what we were up to before we were up to what we’re up to…

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