I haven't done my pages yet today

Yesterday involved such distractions as setting oven on fire, and impromptu meeting with mom at pet store. (she called with gift for son)
Today I had such easy plans, Bob would be around during the day and take Cheese to the pool, and I would type up the 28 pages ( well most of it) from my current notebook. But the day started with Cheese saying it hurt to pee, and calls to doctors who happened not to be there, as are on vacation. When I reached one, I found out it is unlikely to be urinary tract infection, as Cheese is a boy, but rather pool chlorine irritation. So I ran out to store and bought aveeno oatmeal soak, and also cranberry juice, just for good measure, and there is to be no pool for next couple of days. It seems I woke up, turned around and it was 5:49 pm.

I wish I could talk to Bob about writing. I tried to this morning, about there being more sad parts than I thought there would be, and how hard it is to write them. That it is one thing to write in notebook, he talks about Mai's dying, and to know that it happens, and quite another when actually writing the scene, when you feel it, rather than just tell it. I said it didn't seem like I was the one telling the story (in fact, I think parts were kept from me, just like I keep my ultimate plans for our yard a secret from Bob, till the time when they need to be disclosed, till it is too late to turn back. The story does that with me too, knowing I wouldn't keep walking forward if I saw all the winds in the path, telling me sweet bits, scents of flowers carried down the lane, moving me on.) I thought I was writing fluff, sentimental fluff. My roses have thorns, and so windy it is, no matter how still I stand, they blow into me, but with sweet scented beauty they entice me to stay. What is clear to me, is the therapy in the story, the necessity of my hearing it, knowing it, strugglng to feel all the parts I wish not to feel.

I become more overwhelmed now though, as I see it is a forest, and it feels I have hundreds of trees in my arms, and I must set them up in the exact location they belong. The pink binder is not beginning to end, it is pieces, pieces, pieces, some just toothpicks, that I must stick back in the trees from which they came. Of course I do know, which are the trees at the beginning of the forest, those inhabiting the middle, and the ones at the edge. It isn't so much not knowing, but there being too many pieces within each piece.

I'll feel so much better once I have the first rough draft, beginning to end, a framework, I can lay the work on. (A map of the forest). But being me, I am scared. (I'll get lost, it will be dark, strange noises, blisters on my feet, what sorts of animals live in here?) Once I finish typing up these notebook pages, I won't have any excuse for not taking on the next part. No excuse for not going from tree to creation of forest, but of course I will just focus on one section at a time, from tree to tree, I will lead me, through. Right, then, stop hanging here, and type those pages up...

by the bye,
that sweet little full binder is starting to feel to me like Harry Potter's monster book. The one that was like a giant spider and would try and bite your hand off.