Like a boat in bad seize, perhaps. Upon waking, we:
Worry about bills. Since leaving a job I held for five years which paid the bills but did not allow me to save much (nor afford the time to do extra work) (and what little I saved stayed in Elba, though I was never really able ere), I have been freelancing, sort of, mostly editing. 300,000 words of it. I have also sold fiction, accumulated per diems, ran a workshop and done minor web work and proofing. Work for a communications company looms. I’m organizing an event, as well.
Ponder fiction new and old. My most recently written novel is with an agent who was recommended by a publisher who was alerted by a writer friend who took a liking at a reading. The agent is also waiting for an earlier manuscript which I need to clean up. I ear the agent throws great parties. The story collection has been alerted to imminent excursion. Then there’s the arctic novel, the dam novel, the ghost story and the slow loris story, all to be written. The first one scares me, the last one excites me.
Think about Banff. Think about Banff means worry about funding, which is not in my hands. Fate is like a ball thrown back and forth between strangers in lightless room. Two months.
Think about songs. If you do not write them they will not come. Lyrics are truculent little trolls. I hate them.
This is not really a list, is it? It’s a capsizing.
Think about reviving Galleon, the boat that floated but has been drydocked for years. This region needs another journal like it needs a hole in its bulkhead. That’s not true; I’m just stuck in this metaphor with you.
Think about starting a small press. Why why why why?
Think about not wasting time in the morning, such as…