My alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. with a foot in my back and my Christmas present of a super-whoopie-make-your-life-complete pillow firmly wedged under my shoulder and me nuzzled between it and the nightstand. There was a foot on my tailbone and a three-year old snorer firmly wedged in the small of my back. He had been there since 0′dark thirty as he has been every night for a month.
I hit snooze not moving, ignoring every ache and pain all for another blissful nine minutes of sleep. Except when I next looked, easy enough being eye to eye with my clock, it was 5:55 a.m. and yep, first day of the new work year and I’d be late.
Living in Illinois, you know when it hits the teens because you walk outside and can feel your nose hairs stiffen. I got to the late train and after boarding, it slowed to a stop because it was running…late. Happy New Year.
I got in some writing, not as much as I would have liked. I’m nearing the end, but having moments of doubt, moments of trusting that the story isn’t pushing the boundaries of believability. I’ve been pushing my quiet story toward forward motion, upping the stakes, without it becoming clichéd or melodramatic.
It reminds me of the first time I put on a snorkel. I was in Jamaica and not too far from shore. I put on the snorkel and mask and began to swim. I’m a decent swimmer, and barring having watched Jaws recently, I’m good once I get in the water. My love of being surrounded by nothing but water outweighs my fear of being prey. I first looked back toward the shore and then swam in a circle facing the wide open ocean.
And just about had a freakin’ heart attack. It was so vast and cloudy nothing as far as I could see. I was waist-deep in water and yet lost all sense of my place in the ocean. completely disoriented, the water seemed to spin vertiginously. I was swimming with my ex who saw me pop out of the water and thought I had been stung by a jellyfish.
I was done. A snorkeler, I am not. Cross if off of the list of career options and move on.
That is the closest explanation for my feelings on my WIP. I read it over and didn’t know if it was good, bad or indifferent. It’s the New Year, so it must be grand. Yes, that’s it. Never let the facts get in the way of a good story as my Dearest likes to say.
One of my resolutions, and yes, I do have them, is to write on the way home. My train ride home has consisted of a half an hour nap that allows me to keep the hours I do. But if I want more time, I need to find more time. So, the nap? Gone.
After a day that can only be described as perfectly fitting for the delightful morning in which it began, I bucked up and sat on the top tier of the train where I sit in the morning. The seats face out so unless you’re a fan of being the neck-bob-napper, you stay awake. I got out my notebook and read where I left off, looking for signs, bread crumbs in the forest, feeling the witch breathing down my neck.
That’s when I felt a draft. Not my draft. A draft. It was now a balmy 20 degrees outside and the Metra thought ahead to put on the air conditioning for our comfort. Bless their hearts. I looked around and saw everyone else looking around as they redressed in the clothes that habit dictated they remove. I sat on the upper deck alternately writing and then putting my gloves back on to warm my numb fingers. Lest you think I exaggerate, I could see my breath. I fully zipped up my coat, and pulled the straps on my hood until the only exposed part was my eyes. Then I gave up. I can’t write with numb fingers, and my gloves were too big to hold the pen.
The silver lining was I’ve been reading a new book on my Kindle and had a moment to read further without any guilt that I should be writing instead. It’s a good one.
We got to the parking lot and the striking thing was that it was warmer outside than on the train car. Huh.
Anybody else living Groundhog’s Day?
It’s gonna be cold, it’s gonna be grey, and it’s gonna last you for the rest of your life.
We’re in full whine mode here having lost any tolerance for the cold. I’m sorry you didn’t get to fulfill your intention to write. I’m not sorry you got to read.
…or February.
Tomato, tomahto.
Stiff nose hairs – check. Illinois knifewind off the Mississippi – check. Frozen contacts – check.
January Why Bothers? Check check.
I’m wrapping up the writing for tonight—before it was fully unwrapped, really. It’s not what I should be working on, but I moonlighted a bit during the day (when I wasn’t looking up various spellings of fo-shizzle) and I wanted to imagine something fun and sexy. I managed a few lines of angsty and regretful, but writing is writing.
Right?
I forgot the frozen sticky contacts, oh yeah. Good stuff.
Drafts. Was this the first time you’ve had this cold draft on the train in winter? Are you reading through a first draft of your WIP and wondering about it? (or is it in a later iteration?).
I was thinking about you this morning, but never imagined you were f-ing freezing to death! I hope like hell tomorrow is NOT groundhog day and gets off to a warmer start. And I mean warmer in every sense…
No, the trains occasionally have heat in summer, air in winter. Jealous much? I know, lucky me.
Hmmmm….I don’t know what to call what I’m working on. It’s somewhere between a first draft and a third draft and the amount that needs to be carried around in my head is becoming unwieldy and and is giving me vertigo. You know? Remember that will be cut, he becomes the other guy, she needs a scene after that one, push it, shove it, spin it, aaagggghhhh.
Groundhog day in that I just missed my train, but it’s just about thirty degrees. Phew.
You’ve got to be sitting there on days when the heat/air is wrong and thinking, What the hell kind of punishment is this?!
I remember a writer of both short stories and novels explaining how she could decide which was the right form for a certain idea. She said she could carry an entire short story around in her head, flip it and toss it and shuffle it around, and feel good about it. She knew something was a novel when it was too big, too much, for that, and she knew when her head was exploding the book would be a good one.
I must have been kicking nuns down the street in a past life.
Do you remember who that writer is? Please, oh please, let the exploding head theory carry water…
Ooo, Teri, I like this head-explosion thing. Like Lyra, I’d love to know who the writer was.
I’ve been reading one of Alice Munro’s collections, and in the intro she mentions how she likes reading stories out of order. She says it’s like exploring the rooms of a house. I’ve always skipped around myself and loved the analogy.
Speaking of Alice Munro, I read her story collection “Too Much Happiness” and my head exploded. Talk about a master craftsman, Averil, wow.
i’d rather it be 100 degrees with no air conditioning than cold enough to see my breath. and i can’t breath with scuba equipment either.
even if i’m not writing, i believe somewhere in my head i’m working on my WIP…letting it marinate.
I think it has moved from marinated to pickled…
Mine that is. Clarity, clarity.
Yes. The necessary marinating, I’m working in my head always, etc…. Some days this feels good, like yes-this-all-makes-sense, and then there are those OTHER days/weeks etc… Ugh. I figure I’m on about my 4th draft (maybe 5h or 6th) and the story I started with is nothing like the story I’m ending with. The writer-brain can drive a person mad.
“The neck-bob-napper.” LOVE IT. If only you could patent a label…
This connection, between the draft coming from outside and the one in your head, is so poetic. I want to read more!
Thanks, MSB. Thank goodness it was less poetic on the way in this morning…I like a heated train car.
After going through a November and December that mostly seemed to be in the 50s, Cleveland descended into its Winter Chill of Hell earlier this week. But today, I stepped outside and immediately took off my hat and gloves as I waited for the bus. “It’s so warm this morning!” I thought smugly. “What is it, like 45?” Then I checked a store’s digital temperature sign, which clearly read “31 degrees.” I guess I’m already acclimated.
Sometimes, despite our best intentions, writing just isn’t possible. You’ll get the right kind of draft next time, I hope.
That’s how you know we’re midwesterners. 31 degrees feels balmy as soon as we’ve remembered what the teens feel like.
It’s kind of like aging come to think of it…