echo

I couldn't fall asleep the other night, Wednesday night I think. Wasn't day dreaming (probably why I wasn't dreaming), I was thinking, randomly, jumping about from thought to thought, with whatever idea presented itself. I started thinking about my favorite line(s) in my story, that scene, and suddenly it dawned on me, that those lines, are echoed, played out, later in the story. Those lines came to me, about, hmm, 5 years ago, and I have known the general story plotline for almost 10 years, so it is a little late for me, to be realizing this. It would make sense, if I had thought up the lines, used them as foreshadowing, created them as that, knowing, the main character would be playing out the words later. But to have both there, for years now, and not see it at all. To actually be surprised when I finally do see it. On the one hand, I find this validating for the story, it seems to know itself, and what it is doing, where it is going, it makes sense, and has an inherent cohesion. On the other hand, it isn't at all validating to my abilites, skills, insights; I am not planning and creating, deciding. The story has all these circles, and patterns, built in echoes, and not only am I not creating them, but it takes me a long time to even see them, years to, even as I jump from one to the next, a while to see the symmetry even as I stand on the key pieces, looking from one to the next. It makes me feel stupid, really stupid, ur-duh-der, but it does give me faith in the story. I do become more concerned by the lack in my abilites, but I do gain faith, that this story can be greater than my abilities, it can circumvent, what I lack, and create itself, fully.

I didn't create my favorite lines in the story anyway, they floated by one spring day, I kept ignoring them, so they kept repeating themselves over and over, for several days, like a butterfly following me around, crossing in front of me, alighting on nearby flowers, as I walked about the apartment complex (we lived in at the time), though pretty, after a bit, I started to feel pestered, as the words were ever present, and didn't let my mind wander off on its own musings, so I decided to write them down, in the hopes, that they would stop floating about, and hovering around me (like netting, and sticking a pin in them I suppose). And when I wrote them down I started wondering what the words actually meant, and whether or not I believed them. And as my mind was occupied over them in that way, the lines stopped repeating themselves.

Most parts repeat, but there is one that didn't. There was a scene, added on to a sequence, that I forgot about, found it in a notebook last summer, dated from before 2000, (98 probably). I was bothered at first, didn't want to add it back in, because I had forgotten it, I felt it wasn't valid, most parts of the story repeat themselves over and over to me, I couldn't forget them if I tried. But this part, was completely forgotten. Must not be important. Only when I added it back in, in my mind, and then tried to take it out again, I realized it solved a rather serious problem I was having, explaining a transition. No point to my mentioning this, just surprised that I could forget something, that turned out to be very important.

Part of me is upset, that I am moving on so slowly, I should be done with the first draft by now, but I am spending time working on my flower beds, and planting, and I am taking notes, and my current notebook, just for this story, (rather than the hodgpodge of everything that fills my old notebooks), keeps gaining pages, I keep finding new stuff out, seeing a bit more, knowing something today, I didn't yesterday, and feeling calmer for the areas it fills. For knowing my characters, and feeling them, that much more. Summer vacation is almost here, for my son, I will have to write with him home. There is the pool, there is the shore, there is Harry Potter, there will still be the flowers, and weeding to do. I will have to make sure I keep touching on the different points, so the story keeps unfolding, I will have to think of holding the pages in my hands, still a work in progress, but all laid out in order, a story; I will think of how I will feel then, to be able to hold onto it, as a something, tangible, the soul in print. (parts of mine anyway. The parts I like best).

This is my song
written in my bones
the wind blown through my soul
rounding the jagged edged stones

this is the song of my soul
written in my bones
the wind blown through
rounding the jagged edged stones