Wool Gathering

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This post will be badly written.  I warn you because I am normally a rather careful writer but this post has a mission.  First, is to illustrate how messed up my brain can be when deprived of caffeine (which I’m trying to cut back on with an eye towards total elimination) and second, to write as fast as possible in order to jump-start my brain. Clear the sludge out, as it were.

My husand is worried because I am working hard.  It’s a sight he is not accustomed to seeing, apparently.  Little does he understand that I work quite a lot even when I don’t look like I’m working.  I can understand his befuddlement.  He works in an office.  My work involves wool-gathering which does not look like working.  Wool-gathering, oh how I love that term!  Daydreaming sounds so…lazy.

Wool gathering conjures the following picture:  it’s a sunny warm afternoon.  Dust and bits of straw fly up in columns of golden air.  Somewhere, in a pen, an indignant sheep is being sheared.  A little girl picks up the wool as it falls.  That would be me.  She goes from pen to pen, gathering the wool into an enormous basket set on a cart pulled by her beloved donkey, Morris.

Ok, see what happens?  I could write an entire story right here, right now about the little girl and her donkey, Morris.  I would look up and the clock over the stove would say 2 pm and I’d have to jump off something very, very high.

Every night this week, I’ve been at my laptop when my husband has come home.  Piles of papers occupy every table space.  After dinner I fall into bed, exhausted (ok, that’s not different than any other time).  I worked last Sunday.  I never work on weekends.  Ever.

I’ve given myself a deadline to finish The Novel:  it has to be completed by July 7.  That is the day the summer workshop I’m attending begins. (Yes, I got accepted – yay!)  I don’t have time to stress about that or who my mentor will be for that week. I don’t have time to worry that if my mentor is Alistair MacLeod he might read my submission and say, “Girl, how did you get in here?”  No time.

Novel. Must. Be. Done.

I’m stressed because I’m in the middle of a major “fix.”  The fix isn’t finished. I’m making good progress and I can feel the essence of the story but my problem is, I write like gangbusters – until my fingertips literally ache – and then I do a quick re-read.  NO! I’ve done it again.  I’ve gone off, writing endless sentences describing how the sunlight hits an ancient stone wall as it divides a field.    I have classic writer’s ADD – I go on a tangent, chasing butterflies – sometimes off a cliff.

What hurts right now:  My fingers, my neck , my forearms, my head.  Who knew writing was a contact sport?  I stumble through the house, walking into walls because my eyes can no longer focus on anything but a computer screen.

I’m gathering wool as fast as I can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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