Inevitable. A day off, and more than two-thirds into Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall. Of course, all other considerations flew out the window and I read through to the final words. With a small and wondering stop when I encounter the Bishop of Lavaur at Anne Boleyn’s coronation. The neighboring town of Lavaur still has an impressive cathedral – impressive enough to warrant an invitation to London in the year fifteen thirty-three? My inner world shifts by a fraction of a turn.
Revising a previous piece of writing. Not something I do often. The experience is something like pulling apart a garment to make something else of it. Worth the trouble? I’m not sure. I’ve never been much of a seamstress and even the simplest manufactured patterns left me wondering where to pinch the darts or how to assemble band D to the crimp at piece A and pleat at piece H.
The questions in the title summarize where matters stand between me and the story I once called The Crab Walker. It’s going to be a long day or else, I’ll find my way back into the main channel. If I do, I’ll look up at some point and say: what? did three full hours just go by?
The craziness of blog stats. Random hits, deliberate ones, surges here, flatlines there. Find your own way, make sense of what makes sense to you, hope it leads you somewhere other than to a dead end. If it does, see what you can make of the dead end? I guess.
An image. A flooded campground in Louisiana. Frogs hopping on to the upper step on the rig. Waiting it out with no idea how high the water will rise. Some parts of story writing are like that.