The Graduate
- At February 28, 2013
- By Dian Day
- In Writing
0
Yesterday I wrote half the hardest scene; no, not the hardest, but one that has eluded me for weeks. Today I vow to complete it, and its companion. Whatever the rate of words-per-minute, I will consider this a good day’s work. I am not sure why it is still so difficult; I am the recent graduate of countless boy-protagonist novels, boy memoirs, and boy movies. I have boy in my heart. But it’s like there’s a catch in my throat, and I can’t get boy onto the page without a wrestling match.
Dis-traction
- At February 27, 2013
- By Dian Day
- In Writing
- 0
Look at that sun! Can you feel how warm it is! I get ready to go out in my spring jacket. I’ve lost my grip on storytelling.
Seeds
- At February 24, 2013
- By Dian Day
- In Writing
- 0
I wish I could say the solution came to me in my dreams, but it did not. The solution came to me when I was lying awake at 2 a.m., and it took two almost hours to receive, bit by bit, in regular intervals, another thought arriving just when I was once again on the verge of sleep. This morning there was a little pile of scrawled reminders beside my foggy head, written in the dark and ripped off the yellow notepad one by one. The pile is not nearly so interesting when I look at it now. The notes are only seeds, and I have to grow a whole garden before I can write lunch.
Days of Faith
- At February 23, 2013
- By Dian Day
- In Writing
- 0
There’s a lot that wasn’t in the right order; I may or may not have fixed that. There’s a lot still to write—a lot still to write about adolescent boys. There’s so much missing, I can’t tell if it’s going to be good enough. I can’t tell if it’s going to be any good at all. I can’t tell if, at the end of all this, I will just have a different book, but not a better one. These are the days of faith, when the sound of the pen—and the tapping of computer keys—is nothing more than a hymn to hope.
And Lo!
- At February 22, 2013
- By Dian Day
- In Writing
- 0
I have made a Rainbow. It is something less than three inches thick. Now, of course, I have to read it all again. After a certain number of repetitions, all of our words and sentences—even the most well-strung—become meaningless. Some writers would put the Rainbow in a drawer and go out into the world, talk about feral cats or city chickens or the height of snowbanks with the neighbours; read about celebrity murder in the newspaper, and then the comics; have tea and almond croissants with friends, then free-range pork loin with the family; watch movies about ships sinking; buy a new car on kijiji; clean the new car, and then the house. They would, in short, attempt to forget the words and sentences—whether well-strung or less so—configured by their own hands upon the page. Myself, I don’t have this much time. I’ll sleep, and hope to be an amnesiac tomorrow.
No Rainbow
- At February 22, 2013
- By Dian Day
- In Writing
- 0
This morning it is quickly apparent that I am trying to make a book into a rainbow. I see now that a book is not a rainbow, will never be a rainbow, cannot be a rainbow. I have started to weave these coloured pages together three times, but each time, after 20 minutes of confused agony, have returned to my starting point: four quite separate piles of paper, white, blue, pink, yellow. It would seem as useful (and perhaps as viable) to throw all the sections up into the air, and then gather them up, willy-nilly, into a book. Perhaps then the hand of Calliope herself could reach into the air, unseen, and guide them.
Paper Trails
- At February 21, 2013
- By Dian Day
- In Writing
- 0
Yesterday I didn’t want to be here. Honest-to-god. Today I am laboriously printing sections of the book—there are literally hundreds of them—on one of four different colours of paper. This is supposed to help me organize. I’ve decided that if I am so worried about paper, I should maybe try a different profession.
Bohemian
- At February 19, 2013
- By Dian Day
- In Writing
- 0
I decide to loop around and come up over the crest, since I have the urge to see the lake from above and then make my way down the hill towards it; I’m craving a change of view. Near the top I walk under a tree and hear a distinctive singing; above me a dozen pairs of Bohemian Waxwings—a dozen pairs!—are collected in the highest branches. The undersides of their tails are unmistakable against the blue sky. When I get back I look up ‘bohemian’ in my thesaurus, and I’m told it means artist, beatnik, nonconformist, free spirit, gypsy, iconoclast, writer.
Ave
- At February 19, 2013
- By Dian Day
- In Writing
- 0
I have just finished writing a scene of 895 words that, now written, I can’t imagine the book being whole without. It’s taken me over twenty hours to write these words; that’s an average of three-quarters of a word each minute. Of course, during those twenty hours I also slept, ate twice, listened to four CDs to find the right song for Alex to sing – so obvious, once I’d found it – and then YouTube-surfed for an hour finding Alex’s voice. All that makes it more like this pivotal scene was composed at the breakneck pace of three words a minute. At any rate of words, there are a number of boy sopranos singing Ave Maria, but for me the most piercing version is from the Welsh singer Aled Jones, recorded a long time ago – about the time, actually, that Alex would have been singing it. Here, listen for yourself: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=282FP5Kgr90
Missing
- At February 19, 2013
- By Dian Day
- In Writing
- 0
Because time stretches, it seems I have been here almost forever. But it’s not that I don’t always, at the back of my mind, have a vision of being done this work, and getting out of here. It’s not that I don’t know it’s Nana day today and I have a date with my granddaughter and the library that I won’t be making. It’s not that I don’t realize that my grandson is learning to crawl without me there to watch—or even hear about. It’s not that I don’t long to escape to a three-generation Saturday brunch or Sunday dinner, the seats around the table all filled and the easy conversation only rarely running to novel-writing. It’s not that I don’t miss my children nor long for my loving partner—without whom I surely could not be here, merely writing—and the familiar (and family-ar) routines of our lives: How was your day, my loves? How was your day?