So, the habit is to write something, anything, every day. Anything. It keeps the fingers loose like jazz.
Except some days the air is too brisk, and the leaves are too crackly, and the heater is cold heat, though it fills the house with forced air warmth eventually.
I am tired of what I lost here. I don’t want to think about it. This is an hour of bolting, and memoir. I can’t effing concentrate and it is making me mad. I am stuck in a place of memoir and I cannot get toward the novel.
Gritting teeth. Between the two. One of the problems with writing is that other writers distract you. You can get swept up in the way they do things.
There are liquid amber trees and roses to look at but I am not in a good place in the house this year.
I’m not. The cold has set in. A dry and crackling cold, almost crisp. Crisp cold.
Nothing is warm enough this year. Nothing. I used to love this house and now I don’t. I need a different house. A nice big house like the one I found. The thing for me to do is find Walter down at that bakery. Tell him I wrote Heart of Clouds for him to do the screenplay. I did. I fell madly in love with the way that he wrote and I know just how to find him up in that little Tudor redux in the canyon.
I am not going to be able to get anywhere on this new novel until I move. I’m really not. I want to move NOW. Today. ASAP.
I want to get out into the air and out of this ghastly silence.
Decides to write gnarly piece of memoir. It’s just bothering me. For days. For this entire month. I am looking at Christmas decorations and bright things when I go in stores and I can’t even feel it. I want to but I can’t. I’m not cooking anything. Nothing.
If I go out they will come out of the woodwork.
That isn’t what I want.
I want the sea shanty in Ask the Dust.
Clean light and whitecaps. The clouds.
This is landlocked.
I want to be in love. That’s it. I do. Without love life is a wasteland.
A decade of penance is enough and there is no one to cook for and so it is no fun at all.
I have thought a lot about whatever karma this is, and what I should do. I think that I should make enough to leave on my own. Eff it. Then I can just wave goodbye. Adios. As friends. We are.
I need a bedroom again. The couch does not work very well.
Freedom. Why is it so hard? Freedom.
I saw some things I liked. A bed I liked. The things I liked. You know what I’m talking about. A writer paces inside a room when the words don’t flow.
Lingerie and perfume fill in the blanks. I’m not buying any Christmas things.
November is the cruelest month, not April. April has the shoots of Spring.
Mood today is CARVER.
Late Fragmentby Raymond CarverAnd did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
Mood today is sharpened notes and the hard light of the moon last night. All alone in her sky sans the cover of the windswept clouds.
The first thing I would do is set up my studio the way it should always have been.
And I would cook fabulous things for friends. And even myself.
I would just want to. Because I like to.