Gloomy Monday

[mallorys_camera]

Bill H here this weekend. X-husband, father of Max. If anything he is even more depressed about the election than Ben is, thus dinner conversation chez moi for the past three nights ran something like this:

Bill: Maybe we could buy up twenty million bibles cheap, impregnate them with some potent biotoxin, rent a crop duster and then air-drop over Okalahoma

Ben: Oklahoma only has seven electoral votes. So what’s your theory again on why the Jews didn’t leave Germany?

I spent all Saturday cooking and writing which was some kind of luxury. Jerk chicken, pattern recognition. The chicken came out good, I’m not at all sure about the story. I know the structure now but the scene in the Indian casino, in particular, seems overly melodramatic: girl stumbles upon drunken half-sister giving biker a handjob; elliptical confrontation harkening back to sexual abuse they both suffered at the hands of drunken father. I could fix the scene if I had a couple of hours to tunnel into it. The problem is that every minute I write is a minute I’m not doing all the endless administrative work essential to float a business, or working on Max’s college applications, or cleaning the house. Right brain is right brain and left brain is left brain, and never the twain shall meet.

Comments

All apologies to Dorothea Brande

[hotelsamurai.livejournal.com]

I could fix the scene if I had a couple of hours to tunnel into it. The problem is that every minute I write is a minute I’m not doing all the endless administrative work essential to float a business, or working on Max’s college applications, or cleaning the house. Right brain is right brain and left brain is left brain, and never the twain shall meet.

FWIW, here's what I would do. Think really really hard about it, as hard as you can, for about a half hour. Then sent it underground for the elves to work on, and go about your daily routine. Leave brownies at the basement door for the elves, maybe, but let 'em do their thing. Make a date for, like, four or five days later. When the date comes, sit in a comfortable chair or lie down in a comfortable bed and stare at a wall. Lie there and let your mind wander until you get the irresistible urge to get up and write. Get up and write. Thank the nice little elves of the unconscious.