Fog

"Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way."
— E.L. Doctorow

This morning I was writing a little and then went for my morning walk. Having never worked fully on a novel before, it's very interesting. I find myself getting far ahead of myself in terms of where I want it to go, what I want to happen, what should happen...instead of just focusing on the moment and letting it take ME where IT wants to go.

This is going to be a very strange writing year, I can tell already. But I'm hoping the writing really happens and that I'm able to let it guide me instead of the other way around.

Okay, fog. I'm going to walk into you slowly. Don't swallow me whole.

17 Days Later

I've lived in California for 17 days now. I am 17 times different than I was and 17 times the same. My fridge is plugged in now and all seems to be getting into order.

1. I've gone wine tasting three times.
2. I walk up and down a mountain almost every day.
3. I drive everywhere. I have California plates.
4. I wake up when the sun comes giant, glowing my room.
5. I see my family, even a surprise visit from my father.
6. I think about things a lot.
7. I've given 2 readings.
8. I've written 1 poem.
9. I've driven to San Francisco twice.
10. I've eaten grapes off the vine.
11. I've met seven lizards.
12. I've gone swimming twice.
13. I've learned that my love is a good painter, we painted the kitchen and the bedroom.
14. I've learned that I am spatially challenged, I cannot see how things fit together (unless they're words).
15. I helped serve pancakes to 85 people.
16. I'm getting better with the dark, and all the spiders in it.
17. I'm getting better with the light, and all the light in it.

Post from Post-Everything

It's been one week since I left New York and my lovely little Brooklyn apartment. Now, I sit right where the above picture is my view. I am am learning the lay of the land, the thick oak smell of the fast-coming fall. The low hanging grapes, the harvest upon us. I have forgotten all about what it is to be here. I am at once homesick and home.

I am not in a writing routine yet, but I feel it looming. The town is not much different, but also very different. I walked into the local liquor store that seemed much wider and cleaner. And I said, "Wow, this place looks different." They explained that there were new owners and that there had been some trouble with selling alcohol to minors. "Oh, I was SO one of those minors I replied." And here I am not even carding age.

I am getting comfortable slowly with the sounds. A good wind up the mountain can sound like a hurricane. I can hear leaves fall and I think it's giant animals. And here is a new sound: the sound inside. The one that says, "Wait, what have you done?" And also, "Thank you, thank you."