I went to read a little of The Grey Road and draw red lines through words and paragraphs that offended me -- kind of sidling up next to a bit of revision, so it shouldn't count per se -- and found that I have two copies of it here. And my initial thought (maybe I should blush to admit this) was, "Oh, good! Now I can write another book and stick it in this binder!" I assure you that we are not in such dire financial circumstances nor so cramped in this house that this was the sticking point on starting another book in earnest.
The worst of it is, it's not even as though a specific book is pressing at my brain. I've held them all at arm's length for awhile fairly successfully. No. It's not that I'm not writing a specific book that's driving me nuts. It's that I'm not writing a book at all.
I have 3000 words on "Singing Them Back." It feels like about 500. What this means is that this is a long short form -- a sizeable novelette or probably a novella. Shouldn't this be enough? Apparently not, no. It isn't a novel. It isn't the same. What my brain wants is not "large project" but "novel." And until it gets one, it just keeps darting around hopefully.
It feels like I'm trying to make it stay in too small a room. I don't see any reason why I should have some kind of writerly claustrophobia, because there isn't anywhere I'm stopping short stories from going because of length considerations. It's just...the novel thing. Pressing on me. Wigglesquirm.
I spent the morning running around shopping and having fun with my mom. She was on a mission for Scandostuff, so we went to Ingebretsen's and Ikea, and I introduced her to Turtle Bread and Pumphouse Creamery. Now I'm going to take a friend to the doctor. Perhaps by the time I'm done with that and have made dinner, I'll be able to convince the brain that it's time to work on the lovely topology and fantasy stuff in "Singing Them Back" instead of just petting the necklace. Stranger things have happened.