I’m up to my neck in my novel, putting bits together when I know that I will next be taking them apart again, throwing some of them as far into the corners as I can in the hope that I will forget about them, leave them wither of their own accord because it’s hard to actually kill your darlings because your darlings are all the things you hold dear about life, your darlings are the way you see the world but might just not be the right thing here and now to tell this story. And yet, the only way the novel will be finished is if you hold fast to the things that are dear, that make you want to write in the first place.
I have a mountain of projects, of tasks I need to do on behalf of others and I have to turn away from everything, from all the clamour to wrestle with the novel and my own fears as I put it together. Then I find this Chaos Theory in my inbox from Karen Rivers, that says everything worth saying today in my life about writing, the domesticity, the precarious feeling of the world.
On wresting with the novel: The way a book in process has to be gutted like a fish, messy red and stringy, bones everywhere. You want to leave it there, on the dock, for the seagulls to pick clean.
On domesticity: Things that make you think of chaos theory: the house, the garden, the shoe closet, the way the kids’ toenails grow so fast.
The full post is well worth reading.
I’m off again to wrestle with my novel and with chaos. See you somewhere in the thick of it.