Technically this all began around 3, but it took me a good hour to come fully into consciousness, so the real truth of my waking time is probably somewhere inbetween. At any rate, I made the decision to be up for the day, and now I am. Yes, I will be tired later. This is why God invented naps.
I’m up because I have a headache, one which I think is a result of overzealous weight lifting, that the headache is a direct result of pulled muscles in my neck. To be honest, I don’t fully know what I’m doing in there, which is likely stupid, and yet, what a way to learn. I think I was fine on the machines, because they’re controlled. Where I went south was with the freeweights: they were so big and in such a range that "pretty small" got warped in my brain. At home I have three pound weights at my desk and FIVE pound weights downstairs for when I feel aggressive. FIVE. POUNDS. So why I thought, "I’ll just use the twelve pounders, thanks," is because my brain farted and I thought the downstairs weights were tens. Why? Because it seemed about right when I was staring at fifteens, twenties, twenty-fives, and probably something even bigger and the twelves were in the bottom. The threes and fives and twos were in a basket, off to the side. Somehow the basket seemed wimpy. Now, at 4AM with muscles in my neck saying HELLO, THIS HURTS A BIT, the basket is actually looking pretty smart. I’m thinking I should stick to the machines, my home weights, and the rubber band my trainer gave me. Also, I think after I’ve done this gig for a full month, I need to go see the trainer and say, "Okay, give me a better routine. I’m bored." This will perhaps hurt less than just randomly picking up freeweights.
I worked out, though. Twenty minutes on the stair-steppy thing, then about twenty in the weight room, then one last ten minute bit on the treadmill before I went home and showered. Should have followed up on the foam roller at home, actually–it sounds very good to my shoulders right now, in fact.
I mentioned yesterday that it’s cold here. It’s GHASTLY cold here, is what it is. It’s as cold here as it was for a very long stretch last year, which I know because the minute the temperature dipped Sunday I felt like I was reliving last February. There’s a bit of panic that comes with that, a sense of wanting to scream because we did this already, and it wasn’t fun the first time. But the cold seemed to wake up some primal preparedness, too: this is the year we’ve been the most prepared, ever. We had the outside stuff all done, except the leaves in the gutter which we couldn’t fix because it literally froze the day after they fell, and the day before that it rained. I supposed we could have pulled them out Saturday, but at this point it seems like they might as well stay where they are. We have plastic up, though, on nearly every window; I want to get some on the patio door again, but it has to go on the outside because the cats destroy the inside. But we’re prepared. There is wood neatly stacked outside the back door: logs and kindling and twigs, sorted into piles and bins and covered with a tarp, and I can have dry wood in minutes anytime I like. I think Walter has decided staying alive was a good idea largely because we bought a cat bed and placed it in front of the fire. When he does go to kitty heaven someday, I will know right where to find him.
In other news, I’m blogging a lot, actually, but they’re filtered and tagged and kept separate, for now. I’m logging my work on STB, and for some reason I’m liking keeping a diary and liking it as a blog, but I know better than to share every second of the process. At some point I might open that up a bit, but for now it needs to stay in the dark. In any event, I give spoilers, and to my knowledge, only one person in the world has fully read the first version. He is already on the filter, because he’s good in bed and I’m a real sucker for that.
I would like to talk, though, sometime about revision, and the things I’m learning in this go-round of it. It makes me think a lot about TWA and my struggles with a query and a synopsis; the story is very strong, this I know, but it makes me wonder if I shouldn’t look at the theme again, and try to make sure that carries through like it should. I’m not certain, and I don’t want to act on anything yet. But I am thinking.
I’m also sad this morning, because I can’t seem to get down all the story in my head that I want to. There are so many. I know every writer is this way, and every storyteller, but it bothers me. I want to learn to write faster so that I have more of them down. There are a few short ones that it’s truly upsetting me not to have, and it makes me want to restructure my current system out of one at a time and back to multiple stories at a time again. I think I still have work to do on "finishing with regularity" and putting things down. But there’s also a bridge between keeping things in this personal bubble space of my office and the few random people who read either the digital or printed manuscript–and I really do think only so many stories can live at once under the dome before I get upset that I can’t find a way to distribute them. It’s always in the back of my mind, the idea of just putting it out there in any way I can; if there were even half a decent way of doing so, I would. I’m sort of waiting for the digital revolution of books to actually take, and then maybe I will.
I know, I have a long way to go on the thirteen agents thing. But that’s a rant of a different color.
I keep reading astrology things for Virgo that say WAIT and HOLD ON and DON’T DO ANYTHING RASH. Some of them are long arc sort of views, too, and it’s interesting to me that they’re all saying the same thing. Something about Saturn slowing down and Mars stepping on somebody and Uranus making me mad and Neptune making me see ghosts. It makes me want a dartboard, because let me tell you, the pent-up energy I have over here is not serving anyone. Of course, with this neck, perhaps not the darts.
I tell you this: I’m tired of waiting. I don’t even know exactly for what I’m waiting, or what I want. I feel those planets, and there’s this urge to throw it all off and just do something insane because it would be SOMETHING. Which is why when the universe conspires to keep me from baking my cookies and never lets me out of the first scene and doesn’t let me work on my synopsis so I can submit that I about lose it. This is starting to feel like waiting for Godot, and what a retarded deal that was.
As usual, the fiction, when I can get to it, is saving me. I set up a theme chart for STB last night, marveling at how neatly and beautifully the characters reflected on one another, and what happened to the catalyst when he gave himself up entirely, even if it meant destruction–what happened was the characters he’d saved gave right back and saved him in return. It was nice. It was actually very beautiful, and in that quiet moment, I was moved. Then, as if they’d been waiting for the cue, all the characters in my constellation crept forward and nudged me, putting me in the nucleus of their own little atom of existence, and I thought, "Oh."
So I’m not waiting for any planets, and I don’t give a damn who’s retrograde or forward or stepping on whoever’s orbit. Charles and Will and Madeline and Aurel and Alys and Nara and Sam and Luke and the whole gang, actually, said they were doing the same thing. I think the stars like to fuck with us. But my characters, I’ll trust.
And now it’s 5AM, a perfectly decent hour to be awake, if you’re in my skin. I think I’ll punch the coffee in to start early, lie on the foam roller until it’s ready, then go see if I can wrestle with that first sequence again.