Have you ever worked on a book and have it become sort of amorphous? Like, you can’t get a sense of what it is? I don’t know. It’s sort of like writing in the dark, with no sense of your surroundings–where you were before, where you are now and where you hope to be. And the only solution is to write yourself out of it. This happens with every book I write and I do not like it. Because it is hard. Shape, shapelessness, reshape. Finding/re-finding form. Probably none of that made sense, so I will simplify it like so: BLAH.
I have one more chapter to revise before I can move forward and it is like swimming through jello.
Man, jello sounds good right about now.
In other news, I was dusting my bookshelf today (as part of a massive cleaning effort inspired by setting the clocks ahead), moving around books and such, and noticed, for the first time, the St. Martin’s Griffin logo on my Evil Dead Companion! I proceeded to indulge in a spaz moment of glee and then I watched Evil Dead 2. Bruce Campbell is so hot. He almost made me believe in Old Spice but then the commercials stopped airing and the feeling went away.
Pre-dusting, I cleaned out my closet. A friend let me in on this great closet philosophy, which is to not own any clothes that don’t make you feel amazing about yourself when you wear them. This made a lot of sense to me. It turns out my entire wardrobe makes me feel ‘meh’ and now there are one and a half garbage bags of clothes downstairs getting ready to go to goodwill. I now have approximately two outfits to wear that I don’t exactly feel amazing in, but I can’t go new clothes shopping naked, you know?
There are probably laws against it.