Write Timing

My notebook is well-travelled. This one has been with me for thousands of miles, taken along on road trips and camping adventures so it would always be handy when inspiration struck or to fill long hours with useful activity. It's been written straight through from the top of each page to the very bottom. Notes and rewrites clutter the margins. There are lines marked out and rephrased in half-height letters sandwiched between the usual rows. For clarity, I began the book by writing only on one side of each page, so that the marks wouldn't show through to muddle the other side, but when I reached the last page, there was nowhere else to go. So, I flipped the book and started a second pass. There are notes scribbled on the covers, and the whole book is so dense with ink that I imagine you could measure the difference in weight compared to when it was new.

This current notebook holds chapters of the novel as they were when first conceived, scraps of other stories, outlines for blog posts and notes on everything from blacksmithing and ship construction to ancient musical instruments. Looking back through the pages is like walking through a museum of my own history, viewing exhibits of what I was thinking and sparking memories of all the places and events that surrounded each opportunity to write.

Lately, my notebook has been going to and from work with me, eagerly waiting for break time or lunch, hoping I'll choose writing over my usual walk around the neighborhood. I rarely do. The chance to escape my desk and get some fresh air is too tempting. So the notebook sits quietly in the file cabinet until it's time to go home.

It's not that I lack inspiration during working hours. I'll scribble down ideas or bits of dialogue on scrap paper from time to time, and those long walks are great for letting stories simmer. But the business of composing a solid piece of writing takes both reflection and focus of a sort that's hard to come by when surrounded by a hundred other nagging tasks. For the same reasons, the hours after work rarely offer the right atmosphere to finish up those last few pages. Either there's neglected housework demanding attention, or the day has drained the life out of me and concentration is too difficult.

Recently, I've found a small slice of ripe time on some days, between getting ready for work in the morning and going out the door. It's only a few minutes of all the right energy, inspiration, and lack of guilt about other obligations (because I couldn't do much else in the time frame anyway.) It's found time, and I'll use it to write a few sentences on whichever piece that's been rattling around in my thoughts most recently. Unfortunately, I usually get into the pace of it just before I need to leave. The frustration prompts me to toss the notebook into my bag for lunchtime, but we all know how that scenario ends.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if we weren't so tantalizingly close to finishing version two of the novel. There are only a few small sections left on the rewrite, but they are clearly in my husband's territory; so, I've gone as far as I can with it. Since he is far more improvisational in his writing, he has been stalled by timing issues similar to my own, and shifts in his sleep schedule to accommodate changes at work leave him struggling to focus on anything but his job. I think the anxiety of being almost finished for so long drives me to crave the process of writing. I need to make some progress, to move forward through a story, any story, toward a conclusion.

Still, it's hard to find the time and the environment to scratch that itch. So, for now, I'll carry my notebook around. For now, I'll let the ideas brew in the back of my mind, and I'll hope for a time when nothing else demands my attention. I'll look forward to the next vacation day and plan to get away from the obligations. And, wherever I find myself, the book will be ready when the timing is right.

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