Yesterday was a nonproductive writing day. I “warmed up” my pen, read for inspiration, rewrote bad poetry and opened the “working copy” of my manuscript four times. Nothing would come through. I worked on one sentence for 30 minutes and still could not get it right. I gardened, played a board game with my son, and then organized my desk. Then re-organized it two more times.
Some days, the line is meant to marinade while you live your life. I used to tell myself that my full life, single-handedly raising three boys (one who is disabled) offered me rich perspective and material in which I could draw from as a writer.
But yesterday did not feel much like a writing life. Instead, it felt like an avoid-the-writing life.
Today, I woke starving to write.
Best lines: “Even the original pediatrician, the one she painstakingly reviewed and researched for months, has a substitute because he is now unreachable, on vacation. Realistically, Zach wasn’t due for another seven weeks. Yet here the two of them are, her and Zach, mostly alone.”
These lines were almost two paragraphs, mostly nonsense detail that added nothing to the story. Cutting sucks.
Water intake = zero.
Rest = three hours in a row. Miraculous for me.
Core strength = 30 minutes with my disabled son yesterday.
Guitar = painful 15 minutes yesterday and today.
New dishes = zero. I’m on motherly strike this week in an effort to help my sons appreciate all that is done on a daily (and hourly) basis for them, so they are “cooking” meals this week.
My progress through two chapters a week = I’m only halfway through one chapter at this juncture. The progress to rework old prose is daunting. My hope is to complete this chapter by tomorrow and begin on the second (randomly selected) chapter by Friday.
Submissions = submitted two short stories yesterday to a few more literary journals.
Cheer me on please.