Tightrope
It was snowing a few minutes ago. Such fleecy flakes are hard to hate. I cave into the craving for comfort foods: bowls of Asian noodle soup mix for lunch, mugs of hot chocolate to accompany my morning writing.
It feels like some external force has taken control of my life, but benevolent and not oppressive. I am carried along by NaNoWriMo, social engagements, and volunteer work. Disorder in my apartment used to signify depression-at the moment it's more a symptom of being busier than ever. I don't resent the pressure, but it scares me a little at moments, like I'm learning to walk a tightrope. What will happen if I work full-time after Christmas? Will I have any energy for anything else?
The NaNo novel consumes my personal time. Writing it by hand feels different. To change what has already been written would be too inefficient. I hover cautiously over the pen. This isn't like writing morning pages, where it's okay to lose concentration and pump out blather; instead I must stay focused for an hour at a time. It tugs my brain and emotional fibres. Yesterday it took 45 minutes to transcribe two hours of writing into the word processor, which turned out 1,646 words, just 21 short of my daily quota. I'd best fill 11 pages instead of 10. So far today I've written seven.
This afternoon: a writing session with machineplay (hopefully productive of a few more pages), possibly an appointment with Luke, then off to Toronto to pick up the computer from brunorepublic, and hopefully wind down the day visiting Danny before heading home. A busy weekend coming up, too: a visit to Kitchener, and all-day rehearsal Saturday for the Rainbow Chorus. Life is becoming a string of events, with responsibilities and projects to fulfil, places to go, people to spend time with. This is not bad, but I need to make time for cooking wholesome meals, washing dishes, and sitting by a cavernous inner pool with no sound but quiet droplets falling.
