The Moment You Realize You Lost a Limb

The Moment You Realize You Lost a Limb

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Once when I was young I delivered to myself an impressive inner monologue, probably while showering, comparing growing up to exploring an enormous Baroque castle. One of those palaces with a million doors that led to a thousand rooms in a hundred different wings, with all sorts of secrets hiding within: kitchens, courtyards, libraries, ballrooms, water closets. You are free to explore with the caveat that you can only move forward, and with the twist that every time you open a door, a random number of other doors in other parts of the castle will lock themselves up forever. In some cases that won’t matter–you were never going to go in the direction, and most rooms have more than one entrance anyway–but in some cases some very nice rooms and even some entire wings would be closed away from you forever.

I don’t remember the context at all, what made me think about it. I can’t even remember how old I was, which particular shower I was standing in. I just remember the image, of life as an endless number of possibilities, and how aging gradually reduces the option until eventually there are few, if any, paths left open, and what’s left is your life.

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Too many projects

Too many projects

I recently nearly landed a new job, which would have been a great boon financially but a total disaster personally. I couldn’t turn down the money so I went in for the interview and did my best; fortunately for all of us there was a better candidate. (Though my pride does wonder who.)

In the weeks leading up to that interview I had begun to face the possibility that my daily writing spree was going to be reduced once again to stolen moments here and there. Not that stolen moments are impossible to work around–I’ve written two novels and several plays under those constraints–but the luxury of stretching out in my office for hours on end will be hard to give up. And I don’t need the money that badly, not yet.

So a quick survey of what I’m up to: on Sundays I dig through my photo archives and find pretty pictures I have taken throughout my life, up to the point where I joined Instagram and started doing posting things in real time.

On Tuesdays (today!) I dig a little bit into my mind and lay it out here. Just a little, though. You aren’t here for me. Or at least you shouldn’t be.

Fridays I publish fiction. I’ve been doing one a week for the past few weeks, and hope to sustain this pace for as long as possible.

That leaves the other days open for longer-term projects. I’m still working on editing Tantibus, the novel I wrote last year; and its sequel, Allegiance, for which a rough draft is about halfway done. I’m also polishing a couple of old plays that I hope to e-publish. Who knows, somebody might even perform them (I’ll waive royalties to anyone who really does stage them!).

About four years ago, mostly during lunch breaks, I wrote a novel that I refused to share with anyone. I had my reasons: it was a significant departure for me stylistically; I wasn’t comfortable with some of the themes; and there was a giant hole in my knowledge about the subject that I tried to finesse but wasn’t sure I had succeeded in doing. Also, because I wrote in a hurry, usually with a tuna sandwich next to the keyboard (lunchtime, remember), the writing itself was thin.

But when I finished the first draft I did tell my loved ones that I had written one (“I’m not going to let you read it so don’t ask, but I want you to know I finished a novel. Fifty-five thousand words.”) if only so they could understand why I was so proud of myself.

I promised that I would revisit the story when things quieted down, but they never actually did. From time to time I would open the file, navigate to my favorite chapters, and glance sadly at the ones that desperately needed work. And then one day I got a new computer, and somewhere between one machine and the other the entire novel disappeared, even from the cloud and Dropbox. Just poof!

I wasn’t even sad. I was never going to show it to anyone, I said to myself, so it was best to let go. And the next day I got to work in earnest on Tantibus, which I did show to my loved ones.

But in the past few weeks my lost novel has come back to me. There were some powerful images in it, and more than a few compelling characters. I had some time to reflect while walking on the beach a few days ago, and I realized that the huge hole in my knowledge that bedeviled my first attempt has been largely filled up by life experience, and I could probably now tackle it head on.

Yesterday I opened a new file and reintroduced myself to Alison Britten and her sister Shelly. In the intervening years my original title was stolen by a not-very-good television show, so I’ll have to think of a new one, but the girls remain themselves, and their story still resonates with me, and this time I hope to do them justice.

So long as I have the time.

Coffee and croissants

When all goes well I can have as much as an hour to myself before I have to report to work. I spend that hour at a coffeeshop called Friuli. The owner is Italian, the staff is the usual Almaty melange of Kazakhs and Russians. Two men and a woman; she works, they don’t, at least they try not to. Sometimes the can’t avoid serving a customer.

I ask for an americano and, when available, a croissant. If there’s no croissant the woman will bring me a plate of cookies. They’re indulgences I don’t need, empty calories that do nothing to fill me up. Usually I’m not even hungry. But they’re nice. And for about an hour a day I get to write.

I work on novels, or short stories, or whatever else is rattling in my head. I try not to think about work or family, or daydream about being President or starting a business. I resist the urge to tell an imaginary curious onlooker about my past or my future. I just write. At the end I take my word count and mark it on an on-screen sticky note. It keeps me motivated. Sometimes I write just to make sure that the word count is moving in the right direction. Without a definite purpose, even as modest as moving my word count up, my writings go nowhere. At least I’ve figured myself out.

Today it was 808. A funky number, banging like.

The coffee is decent. The croissants are hit and miss. Today’s was dry, dense, and a little cold. But that isn’t the point. I’m rewarding myself on a job well done. Funny how pleasing myself is something I have to work at sometimes.