Day Three -- Lucky 13

For two days I’ve written journal entries and blog posts, plus scenes for my novel. For most of my life I’ve been looking for the perfect place, situation, and setting to live like a writer. Like a real writer. I’ve gone on solitary retreats and attended writers’ workshops. I’ve spent weeks alone in my cabin at the edge of a Cascade wilderness, days and nights in rented rooms in the Sierra, at the ocean, and in Mexico. Yes, I’ve written. I have volumes of journals on closet shelves and desktops. My desk drawers hold reams of paper and notebooks; electronic documents and folders nest on computer hard-drives, CDs and flash drives. I have so much draft material and so many literary fragments, I don't know how to go back and find something useable there. 

And now, here, in this oh-so-less-than-perfect situation, I am writing. Actually moving forward on a semi-cohesive draft, creating a story. Pulling from fragments, yes, but moving in a forward direction. My time is limited, I am exhausted and often frustrated, I feel caged, and yet I am writing. Maybe this entrapment is finally forcing me to sit still long enough. Here, with the absence of liberty, I succumb to the incessant nagging to write some kind of truthful story. I’m not sure if commitment to write each day or fatigue will win out this time, but as the ornithological clock on the wall sounds the 7:00 PM hour with a bird call unrecognizable to me, I feel ready to open a new document and at least describe the next scene of the story.