A thing we do, on nights when tired won’t let us do anything else. A thing we do just to keep the scent in our nostrils; to tease ourselves about what is possible:
We read. We read ourselves, our notes, the hints of what’s to come.
Not that anything makes much sense. Not that, at eight p.m. on a ragged Thursday, we are capable of much else than staring at the tv. Not that we should be doing anything other than taking a Tylenol PM and going to bed.
The collected notes prepare us for the next chapter. They are the gameplan for what’s to come. The scent. The taste. The things we give ourselves to remind us of the wonderful potential that is ahead of us. The notes.
This is a preliminary suggestion of what’s ahead. The notes for the Method Acting that the chapter will become.
And most of all, it’s a reminder not to let it get away.
Even the committed quest that a story is can get away from us at times. Sometimes, in those reluctantly-admitted moments of emotion, we want to run fast and far; to blow the story off and sleep for a week. That’s an excuse that gets us nowhere. The whiff of the work is the scent of the fine meal; we may not be hungry now, but when the hunger kicks in we’ll be ravenous.
This is the moment in the relationship in which you are tempted to tell yourself that you have fallen out of love. It is a momentary thing; instantaneous. No one can love all-in at every moment. But we must.
So this: I sit with the laptop on the surface for which it was named. Hoping that the osmosis of proximity will put the ideas in my head…like learning a foreign language in one’s sleep.
I have loaded the veggie bin and the freezer. The menu prospects at Chez Lynnie are pretty exceptional. I may escape for a weekend hour or two to a local art museum; I may stay here on Island Me all weekend. Sleep. And write. And hit the gym. And tap the new case of Cotes du Rhone Viognier. And cook. And find my way into the chapter that is right now placeholding on my lap.
Can’t wait for the weekend. Where the writing is.