I’ve tried to take most of this month off from writing – after the frenetic efforts of the previous two and a half, it seemed like a good idea. Now it’s driving me up the wall, even as I know my mind needs to refresh, recover from the effort of putting together 30,000 words in such a short space of time.
But I find myself opening up the Hauntings word file and dabbing away at a few pieces, being unsatisfied with the bittiness of my efforts, but knowing I should be happy with making small marks right now. I need a long stretch, quiet, and a head full of new images before I can really hope to get into the project properly. Until then, I am hunting in the dark, stepping in puddles and falling against tree branches. It was coalesce, it will be copacetic, it will have a better title I think, but not right now.
Now is the time for ideas and reading and squirreling things away. I’ve been reading Frankenstein (about time, really) and watching – or is watching the right word? Being hit by the weird and amazing hurricane that is American Horror Story – I hope to have a conversation on The Female Gaze about that quite soon. I am tentatively even thinking of the next project after the currently-named Hauntings. Something with more weight. A flash novel, set in a particular location (something I’ve been wanting to do for a while, like The House on Mango Street, like American Horror Story, but mine. Something worthwhile moves ahead of me in the dark, the moon glancing off its back. I don’t know what sort of shape it is, only that it should be unsettling – even frightening? – When I get it down on the page. But if I’ll catch the right form, I don’t know. That is writing. Hunting in the dark, with our fingers to guide us, and everything we’ve seen before providing that faint cast of light for us to see by, though we trip over enough, that’s true.
For now I am a reader and a watcher, not attempting anything more, just yet.