The novel is underway
Nov. 3rd, 2003 02:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaneramosSaturday I wrote more than 3,200 words, so I have decided to stay in Toronto until Wednesday morning. I took yesterday off of writing, and wrote another 1,600 so far today. Being outside my home space allows me to avoid my typical, time-wasting habits. I like solitude, but the rhythms of other men moving around the house comforts me. Curious, that.
Of course the nights, lying in a warm tangle with a sleepy cub are both comforting and motivating, something to look forward to while I'm working. No puzzle how that works.
Yesterday morning Danny and I went walking. The leaves are still on the trees here, later than in Guelph. Under a drizzling sky, the streets are brilliant with maples, oaks, locusts and a tree with deep burgundy leaves, which I can't identify. Roses are still blooming. I went out alone this morning with my camera. I like the adventure of exploring places I've never seen before, even if it's no more than quiet neighbourhoods with faded buildings and old men shuffling along under their umbrellas.
On the other hand, I might tire of walking these same city streets every morning. Would I? Or would I warm to them with familiarity?
I have walked the banks of the Eramosa for five years now with never a twinge of boredom. I would happily walk there today, but for the time being I'm benefitting from the energy of returning to a house with other men clattering dishes, clicking their keyboards, and meowing, hissing and spitting at each other.
Of course the nights, lying in a warm tangle with a sleepy cub are both comforting and motivating, something to look forward to while I'm working. No puzzle how that works.
Yesterday morning Danny and I went walking. The leaves are still on the trees here, later than in Guelph. Under a drizzling sky, the streets are brilliant with maples, oaks, locusts and a tree with deep burgundy leaves, which I can't identify. Roses are still blooming. I went out alone this morning with my camera. I like the adventure of exploring places I've never seen before, even if it's no more than quiet neighbourhoods with faded buildings and old men shuffling along under their umbrellas.
On the other hand, I might tire of walking these same city streets every morning. Would I? Or would I warm to them with familiarity?
I have walked the banks of the Eramosa for five years now with never a twinge of boredom. I would happily walk there today, but for the time being I'm benefitting from the energy of returning to a house with other men clattering dishes, clicking their keyboards, and meowing, hissing and spitting at each other.
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no subject
Date: 2003-11-05 11:50 am (UTC)I don't feel like I have much command of the language, or even of my own mind anymore, so I haven't returned to poetry or music composition; memoiring is a minimal return to long-lost creativity that doesn't require as much thought, structure, planning, or committment as fiction, and it makes me channel my thoughts (if not focus my narrative) much more clearly than I've ever been able to with my short attention span.
I certainly comprehend and empathize with the impact depression has on motivation.