book, wind, eat, book

all of a sudden, it is the end of october… october, who, this year, has worn the mask of february, taking a very, very long time to unfurl.

last night it rained. i slept poorly. waking to the sound of non-existent intruders every hour or two, looking at the darkness in the darkness, falling back asleep.

this morning when i opened the shutters, there was sun – so warm, so deep in its autumnal heat, that sitting at the desk near the window, the side of me that was exposed grew warm, too.

now, the sun higher up, somewhere, heating roof shingles, not me, the wind of the day rolls back and forth and back and forth past the windows. i put on another layer, cool with the window open, pull the chapeau-de-jacket over my head, reclaim the escaping body heat, trapping it in fleece.

forty-three pages into a third-edit on last year’s national novel writing month novel, i keep pausing to eat, to pee, to take a drink of water, to dance with my guitar, to pace, motionlessly, staring out the window. after this edit, i will call my draft a manuscript & i will send it to my first reader & then i’ll be a novelist – published or never published, i’ll keep the word in a box with other treasures. and, if there are publishers, and if they ask me to write a biography for the back flap, i’ll thank the people who taught me to write, who introduced me to imagery, word play, and metaphor… paul simon and billy joel… who showed me into absolutely new worlds… scott o’dell and suzanne fisher staples… who let me into the minds of people i wanted as friends… jerry spinelli and sharon creech… and when the first check comes, i’ll parcel out a little bit and send it back to the people whose organizing made me, a poet, write a damn novel – nanowrimo – and ask them to remind everyone to carry on.


About scribblelip

walking down the road with a book of conjugations in my hand.
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