Foggy again this morning but wind and sun blows it clear in the afternoon. The wind is coming from the south west which makes me suspect that there is indeed rain coming as the forecast has been suggesting for days now but the rain has been holding off shore. But maybe not for much longer. The grass is growing longer and the leaves of the cherry tree are stretching out.
We have been eating from our freezer for a few days and the inside of the refrigerator has that funky smell of some old vegetables we didn’t use up in time. It’s time for a good clean and trip to the store. Neither Jan nor I have been to town all week. Post Office but not town. Dot is bored with us. She is getting tired of our soccer game, and she has started chewing on non chewable items: like steps and loose boards on the fence. Cribbing, I think you call this if she were a horse.
Next week I will spend working on my new Cecil Book. Monday I have a meeting with my editor, and I will be working on the new Cecil, unless I have torn it up in a rage and moved to Idaho with Dot to become a sheepherder. (which was a thought I had this morning… Dot and me living in a wagon in the Rockies herding sheep for the rest of the pandemic, with a brown gelding named Buster and two mules named Spic and Span. (Wow… Where did that come from?) Jan will live in town and manage her whale grants and Dot and I will bring her mutton every ten days and take baths, get drunk then go back in the hills to live on sardines, rice and mutton till snow flies. All Dot and I will drink is clear icy stream water, and we will read cheap potboiler mysteries with half naked people (and dogs) on the covers. See? I have a fall back if this editorial meeting doesn’t go well.
This is what my lawn looks like up close. Holy crap, there is not much grass in this meadow!
The truth is I’m not really great at working on too many things in detail. My work method is like getting a frozen locomotive running in the winter. Particularly when it comes to rewriting a novel. I sit and stew a lot. Think…. think… think…. then make some changes…. think… how does that change the things that come later? Look at those things. Think, think. Eat a sandwich. Do some line editing, just grind that out make simple changes, grind grind grind. Then stew. Get depressed about the whole thing. Go for a walk. Start another book in my mind. Stop that. Think about the book at hand. Wish I was smarter than I am. Scold myself. think. think. think. Make more substantial changes. Delete. Delete. Delete. WAIT. Move deleted sections to a separate folder to save in case needed later… this usually takes WAY more time than I thought it would. Do more line editing suggested by editor. Jesus I make a lot of mistakes. No wonder she hates me. Grind Grind Grind. Look at my original notes on my characters. Look at my original notes on book. Write new mission statement. Write new one footed statement of what the book wants to be/do. (“What is this book about?”while standing on one foot. Then, “What makes this book interesting ?” (same: on one foot.) Then I will usually write something on a three by five card like “Keep It Simple, Stupid!” (these words from my old editor Juris Jurjevic. Or “What’s getting in the way of the flow? Take it out.” Then go back to the top and start over. The discipline is number of hours per day, not number of words as it is with a rough draft. I usually shoot for four hours a day, four to six if I finally get that bastard thawed out and chugging.
I will do that all week but I will write you a blog and do a reading on Friday next. how’s that sound?
Salmon Berry blossom.
As I said, I don’t know what the future will bring. I might be a sheepherder in a month. Soho Press might dump my ass. In fact they might go into the sheep business, who knows? Nobody really knows anything, except that about half the country appears to be fucking crazy and carrying way to many guns and the other half half appears to be timid and enjoys listening to NPR. That will probably remain the same. (Now I know that some of you gun lovers listen to NPR so don’t write me.) But I will be writing to you again next Friday with an update. Remember that Bill Stafford poem I read a while back? “The signals we give, yes, no or maybe… should be clear, the darkness around us is deep.” Well wait for my signal. It will be coming, and of course I would be happy if you sent me one too.
Naturally, mine will be very clear, but it will most likely read, “Maybe.”
with love,
John Straley
Flattened berry canes
and garbage cans tipped over.
Dog growls at shadows.
jhs
Here is a recording I made of me reading from my novel, The Angels Will Not Care.
