Friday, January 4, 2013 • Winthrop, WA (Bluff Street House) • 8:25 PM
Last night I sat here in the rather eerie, frozen-northwest silence pondering my writing past, writing my present, venturing into my writing future. After writing my journal entry, I tried through heavy-lidded eyes to work at my writing, but the result was about two hundred wooden words that wandered off track and amounted to nothing. Nevertheless, I experience a sense of satisfaction, that even while stifled by exhaustion and depleted by doing for Mother, I managed to find the discipline to try.
The words I clicked out on the keyboard and saved for review have served a purpose. As I reflected on them today I decided that this “book” must be written in first person. I’ve experimented with this from a variety of perspectives and voice, and today it seems clear to me. When I “think this story” it is always told in the first person. At times, writing short stories, I hear them in my head in third person, or even in a second person style. But this “book” comes to me in first person.
So, here I sit, before the fireplace again, stillness closing in, the old house creaking from the brittle cold outside, once again considering the blank screen waiting for my work. I’ll get to it. I hope to get to it….
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