WOOOOHOOOOO!
This is by far the latest I've ever finished, but the sheer fact that I finished? Awesome.
N has an interesting hypothesis, involving the interrelation of creation and destruction, that I create so much my creative genius (as in the motivating spirit, not the ability) has to cause a lot of attendant destruction. As fuel. As balance. As something. In any case, the past couple of days offer plenty of support for this belief:
- the car doors, one of which sprang open (surprise!) as I was driving to work yesterday, one of which wouldn't even let the key turn in the lock as I was trying to get home from work today
- the 10,000 other drivers who tried their hardest to hit me on those commutes
- last night's flat-out snide rejection slip for a short story (but I wound up working it, and the reply I wanted to send, into the NaNothing, so it's all good)
- the bottle of cranberry juice, whose cap I should have checked before I shook it
- the big dish of maple-tangerine glaze, which I poured all down the front of my good winter coat (also en route to work this morning)
- the mural in the bathroom, which fell off the wall this morning (it was a rough morning all around)
- the broken glass on the kitchen shelf, which I discovered right after N and I had a conversation about Periods of Broken Things
I feel as though I'm forgetting something. Ah well. As N says, it's not massive crippling destruction. It sort of dances between annoying and funny. I choose funny. Maybe it's just what happens when you start taking risks. I don't know. In any case I've got this manuscript now. And all kinds of challenging, bruising circus skills to practice. And a few unexpected pieces of work that point unequivocally towards Italy. Accompanying all these Broken Things are a lot of really odd coincidences that whisper: One way or another, you are living rightly.