Instead of feeling paralyzing anxiety and dread about the impending arrival of my family at the end of the week, I’m feeling a lot of nervous energy. I’m also feeling weirdly unfocused, because, since K. is in Turkey w/the manuscript and the other person who is reading it can’t really dig in until next week, I’m trying honest to god hard to leave it alone for the whole month of April, not look at it, not think about it, not mull it over, just let it be over there and me be over here.
But I miss writing it! I miss fixing it! I know, I should just start to work on something else. Did I tell you I have this idea for a ghost story, the premise of which would be that a woman keeps coming into her office to find things moved around. She blames the janitorial staff. They claim it’s not them. She locks her office and forbids them to enter it. The trash piles up. The office starts to smell. And still things are moved. She puts in a camera. On camera, in the middle of the night, she can watch things move seemingly under their own power around her office. She wonders if someone has rigged her camera or what. And, lo and behold, when she burst into the office in the middle of the night, she discovers that there are indeed fishing lines tied to everything, so that someone just off camera can tug on stuff and make it move while remaining out of sight of the camera. So, she 360s the office with cameras.
And yet… stuff still moves.
Ha ha ha. I’m kind of in love with the idea of ghosts faking a haunting.
Anyway, I’m kind of beside myself. I realized trying yesterday to come up with a post for Pith that opening up my brain to let a book slide out was opening up a lot of energy for that, too. And now I’m kind of like “Um… well, maybe some stuff happened I could blog about, I don’t know.”
But it’s okay. I’m not on any deadline but my own, with my own being that I don’t want to turn 37 next month (jesus) without being in the process of looking for an agent. I want to have done everything I can do to get this book published and get to the part of the process that is beyond my control before my birthday, as my gift to myself.
I can remember when I was 16 sitting in the basement of the first parsonage at Pawnee and writing up a list of goals for myself. The only two goals I remember were to have a pet pig (does a dog that snorts like a pig when she’s really excited count?) and to publish a book before I was 20.
I kept revising upwards and not writing a book, but I feel like I have to try to reach that goal someday, you know?