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clarentineI’m not a big fan of ritual. As anyone who knows me can attest, I am one of the most easily distracted creatures on the planet. I never manage to do a thing the same way twice.
Go to make a cup of tea – oh, there’s a piece of plastic from my son’s lunch-making on the counter; detour to throw it away – trash needs to be emptied, I see; make a mental note to haul it outside while the tea’s steeping – open cabinet where the tea’s kept; remind self I promised to finish some of these boxes before buying more, so instead of reaching for the rooibos I pick up the green tea with mint and extract the last teabag; lay teabag down on the counter while I disassemble the box and throw out the plastic it’s wrapped in (“got to remember to take out the trash, self”); reorganize pile of paper scraps to be carried out to the recycling tub; suggest to myself that I take these out when I take out the trash. Lather, rinse, repeat, until I finally manage to carry the cup of tea back to my office and set it down.
Don’t ask me if the trash got taken out. *g*
However, I was reminded a couple of evenings ago of the value of ritual to the production of words. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to connect with my writing friends who inhabit a particular chatroom on AIM. As far as I know, they’ve been there every evening while I was spending my year in various states of packing and unpacking, but I hadn’t had the mental energy to check in with them. (I’ve been following your blogs, friends, but that I can do on my lunch hour while a dozen competing mental reminders dance in the forefront of my brain. No such luck re writing.) This time, I thought I had the focal ability, and so I checked in.
And I felt like writing. More, I felt like I needed to be writing, because that is what I was used to doing when I went to that room. It was fairly startling.
I’m not sure whether my appearance there engendered momentum (in me; I don’t kid myself that I have any effect on the other denizens of the room), or if it’s more a matter of suppressed natural instinct finally being uncorked, but I’m still feeling the need to open the file on Bells and press forward with the rewrite. My poor agent is probably cheering as she reads this. *g*
At any rate, I hope to build on that momentum and maybe, finally, hopefully wrap up this novel sufficiently that I can send it off like I promised oh, eight months ago. (eep.)
***
As you might have guessed, we’re in the new house. I still am parking outside in the driveway because there are more boxes on my side of the garage which haven’t yet made it inside, but most of my books are up, I have artwork on the walls, and I’m dressing out of the bedroom closet instead of the office closet now that my clothes are properly organized. (The younger cat is thrilled I’ve provided her such a comfy nest on the bottom shelf of my sweater cubes. I’m contemplating caticide while shaking cat hair out of my sweatshirts.)
No hogs in sight, but there’s this weird pinging sound after dark from the cleared acreage out behind our little patch. I’m going to wait until after hunting season to hike down to the back of the former pasture in the dark and investigate, assuming the sound hasn't gone away by then.
New house. And it only took eight months, two moves, seven rolls of packaging tape, three mortgage applications, and two near-nervous breakdowns to get here.
Yay!
Go to make a cup of tea – oh, there’s a piece of plastic from my son’s lunch-making on the counter; detour to throw it away – trash needs to be emptied, I see; make a mental note to haul it outside while the tea’s steeping – open cabinet where the tea’s kept; remind self I promised to finish some of these boxes before buying more, so instead of reaching for the rooibos I pick up the green tea with mint and extract the last teabag; lay teabag down on the counter while I disassemble the box and throw out the plastic it’s wrapped in (“got to remember to take out the trash, self”); reorganize pile of paper scraps to be carried out to the recycling tub; suggest to myself that I take these out when I take out the trash. Lather, rinse, repeat, until I finally manage to carry the cup of tea back to my office and set it down.
Don’t ask me if the trash got taken out. *g*
However, I was reminded a couple of evenings ago of the value of ritual to the production of words. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to connect with my writing friends who inhabit a particular chatroom on AIM. As far as I know, they’ve been there every evening while I was spending my year in various states of packing and unpacking, but I hadn’t had the mental energy to check in with them. (I’ve been following your blogs, friends, but that I can do on my lunch hour while a dozen competing mental reminders dance in the forefront of my brain. No such luck re writing.) This time, I thought I had the focal ability, and so I checked in.
And I felt like writing. More, I felt like I needed to be writing, because that is what I was used to doing when I went to that room. It was fairly startling.
I’m not sure whether my appearance there engendered momentum (in me; I don’t kid myself that I have any effect on the other denizens of the room), or if it’s more a matter of suppressed natural instinct finally being uncorked, but I’m still feeling the need to open the file on Bells and press forward with the rewrite. My poor agent is probably cheering as she reads this. *g*
At any rate, I hope to build on that momentum and maybe, finally, hopefully wrap up this novel sufficiently that I can send it off like I promised oh, eight months ago. (eep.)
***
As you might have guessed, we’re in the new house. I still am parking outside in the driveway because there are more boxes on my side of the garage which haven’t yet made it inside, but most of my books are up, I have artwork on the walls, and I’m dressing out of the bedroom closet instead of the office closet now that my clothes are properly organized. (The younger cat is thrilled I’ve provided her such a comfy nest on the bottom shelf of my sweater cubes. I’m contemplating caticide while shaking cat hair out of my sweatshirts.)
No hogs in sight, but there’s this weird pinging sound after dark from the cleared acreage out behind our little patch. I’m going to wait until after hunting season to hike down to the back of the former pasture in the dark and investigate, assuming the sound hasn't gone away by then.
New house. And it only took eight months, two moves, seven rolls of packaging tape, three mortgage applications, and two near-nervous breakdowns to get here.
Yay!
no subject
Date: 2010-11-19 01:47 pm (UTC)