Remembering what works, what doesn’t
Was trying to remember what worked and what didn’t during that glorious 90 days when I got the majority of “Pig” written. And the key wasn’t what happened during the time I was writing. It was what happened before I started. I wouldn’t let myself read. I know that sounds stupid, especially when I read four or five books a week. But that’s exactly it. If I don’t let myself read, then the only way to get to read something is to write something. Worked, too.
Mixed in with that is boredom. Sick of myself, sick of cleaning house, sick of being the good little wife… I think I’m making my husband nervous, I’ve been so solicitous lately. Bringing him dinner, washing AND putting away his clothes. My usual policy is more like benign neglect, much like the administration under which my houseplants survive or don’t. It’s worked pretty well for 26 years of marriage, which may be why my occasional bursts of excessive domesticity seem to unnerve him.
I’ll get there–I know I will. And then I’ll bemoan the fact that I can’t seem to get my head far enough out of the book to accomplish anything around the house. Never satisfied… never, never, never.
