Forecasting and Revising

The front bedroom where I write has 2 windows, and when we moved the writing desk back into the room, we put it under the other window--this is the first morning that I have watched the moon rise through that window.  I have other moonrises on the brain--most notably during a time of horrible lay offs, when friends were let go.  Some lay offs involved personnel whom I did not really know, which was bad for overall morale, but did not affect me personally in the same way.

I am comforted by moonrise, regardless of the phase of the moon.  I'm enchanted by the full moon, of course.  But this small sliver, with a silver border to complete the circle, has its charms too.

I am watching the moon rise while trying not to think about hurricanes brewing in the Atlantic.  Yesterday, hurricane Florence grew into a category 4 hurricane, much to everyone's surprise--and it happened over waters that are actually cooler than usual and with a wind shear that was expected to keep the storm from strengthening.  This morning, I thought about our cottage, all the stuff from this housing remodel that we've put in there, all that would be lost if a flooding storm came our way.  Some part of me is too tired to care.  Some part of me just wants to walk away.

But this is not my first home remodel.  I know that eventually I'll look up and think, "Hey, we're done with this project and that project."  A point in case:  we may have our final inspection for the fence today--almost a year after Hurricane Irma destroyed it.  And I also know that a house will always have a project for those who want one.

So yes, the moon rising and setting and moving through its phases is a comfort and reminder:  this, too, shall pass.  Each year will bring its own set of comforts, along with new sorrows and joys.

If I was of a different mind (or if I lived in a different part of the country) perhaps I'd take heart from Hurricane Florence, as evidence that we can strengthen and grow, even if the environment works against us, even if we inherit a set of odds that are not in our favor.

Yesterday, I spent some time thinking about my fiction, if not actually writing much.  Last night, I did write a sentence of the short story that I think I'm about to end.  Is it a natural ending?  I'm unsure.  I wrote part of a sentence, and then I went back into my computer files, looking for a story that I couldn't find in the morning.  Lo and behold, there it was.

I had several versions, so it was interesting to see my writing process.  In the first draft, there's a gap, and I leap right to the ending.  Back in those writing days, in the early years of this century, I often knew the ending.  These days, as I wrote yesterday, I often do not.

In a later draft, I can see all sorts of changes I made--the story is stronger.  Yesterday morning I went to my fiction file looking for a different story that I thought might work in my current collection.  That, too, was an interesting experiment in reading and revision.

I wrote it in 2011, I think.  It clearly must be set in an earlier time--a Baby Boomer writer has elementary school age children.  That part could be fixed in terms of making the story fit with the collection--I'll make those children grandchildren.  But the larger issue is that the story is set in the desert Southwest, and parts of the plot rely on the immigration issues of that area. 

I plan to change it, just to see if it could work.  Instead of the Sanctuary movement, perhaps I could use the issues that swirl around Cuba.  Or I could weave it all together in a different way.  My writer brain is on fire with possibilities!  It's a delight, since I haven't been feeling inspired in a long time.

I say that, but then I realize it's not exactly true.  The inspiration comes in waves:  I was inspired back in July when I put my collected short stories into manuscript form.  I was inspired in September, when I saw the Ken Burns Vietnam documentary and wrote a short story of my own inspired by Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried."

My Hindu writer friend, like me,  writes both fiction and poetry, although she says she may be done with poetry.  We talked about how the writing process is so different for each.  She finds poetry much harder.  I find the poetry writing process easier, at least once I have an idea.  I like how the poem is contained--often if I start writing, I have a poem at the end, which is not the case with my short story writing.

My friend once described her writing process as something akin to demon possession, where she'll write for HUGE chunks of time (think 6-12 hours).  My writing process is more like the kind I would have if I had toddlers in the house--I snatch 15 minutes here, scribble out notes for longer writing sessions that will never come, and yearn for a writing retreat.

I now have to strain to see the moon in the eastern sky.  My writing time is over for now.  Let me go take my walk to the beach.  My rational brain knows that I won't be able to foretell the path of the storm--it's much too early.  But like many people, I like the idea that I could read the signs that others are too busy to notice:  a shift in the migratory patterns of the birds, a swirl of clouds that will give me the upper hand in preparations.