It’s back to work day, an idea our French family members find ridiculous. January 2nd?? The day after New Year’s? It’s too soon!
They’re not wrong.
I suppose I should take down the Christmas tree, which has reached the death rattle phase of balsams. One touch and all the needles fall off the branch.
But I won’t.
Back to work day means back to writing the novel day. No excuses. Not even the fire hazard in the living room. Because somehow I have to discover the link between the beginning of the book and the end.
I recently encountered two different films in which the characters tell the author what to write. In one, people look at one another over the author’s head in a mutual understanding that he is quite mad. But, I must tell you, that is precisely the process: the characters do take over. It’s apparently a common—if not universal—experience of novelists, which, honestly, I find reassuring. So far as I can tell, I may be slightly silly, but not actually insane. At least, not yet.
So, today will be spent listening as much as writing.
Meanwhile, the owls are saying their good nights to one another, and the sunrise is brilliant orange against the blue night sky. I can just see the silhouettes of the roosting turkeys. Auggie snores nearby on the couch. Eli has gone back to bed without me.
My cleared desk awaits.
Off to work.
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