Wednesday, June 20, 2007
finished that bit
finished the scene, finished off the rest of that notebook. Printed it out, 10 pages, twice, one copy for binder, one for cut and paste.
The other notebook has about 28 pages for me to do tomorrow. I do regret having waited so long to type it up, for it is very challenging reading my own writing.
I find it surprising that stuff that I have written over the years about this story, and pieces I have just added this past year, (and wondered why I was adding them, and if I should be) and the general way I work in bits and pieces, doing a sentence here, and one there, doing whatever part, of whatever scene comes- considering all that, I am surprised at how it does all seem to go together (at least to me it does anyway). It goes together better than that sentence I just wrote.
I found myself asking "is this a metaphor?"
"No, you know it isn't. They are what they say they are and so is the situation"
"yeah, but it reads like a metaphor. It reads like you are really talking about him"
"well, I am not."
"but if it is, or rather, if it also is, then it would make even more sense that this part of the story exists"
"Yes, I guess it could work that way too, but I didn't write it that way, that is just coincidence, I wrote it as I saw it. And I don't like you poking around, saying this is this, and that echoes that, on and on, it makes it all seem like some forced rhyme."
"But I think it is funny that you can be rhyming everywhere and not know it" (writing lines that rhyme and not see it at the time)
"But doesn't that make me the opposite of a poet? It makes me a blind painter, or at least a color blind one. Or is it the form that I miss, and color the only thing I see? When I finally see past each individual tree, to discover I have been traveling all along through a forest; I just feel all the more an idiot. Maybe I wont have to feel bad if the story doesn't turn out well, as it doesn't very much seem that I am the one who is telling it.
oh very late, off to bed