 |
|
|
|
|
 |
 |
|
||
 |
 |
|
||
|
||||
 |
|
|||
|
||||
|
||||
Here I SitDecember 15, 2005 That clear expanse of carpeted floor made me bold. Now the nerve center of my editing-writing self is strewn all over it, in piles and heaps and on a few organizing devices (stackable paper trays, floppy-disk drawers, metal baskets). Who'd've thought that so much stuff could be crammed on three three-shelf bookcases? Having dusted and vacuumed the vacant corner, I've started restocking the shelves. About a dozen large loose-leaf binders have been restored to the bottom shelf to my right, under the window. About half of these hold drafts of Mud of the Place, with comments by various readers and support material printed off the Web; I'd almost forgotten the info sheet about .30-30 rifles. Doesn't that make you want to read the book? Two binders hold ancient draft chapters of Coming Around, which I started almost 30 years ago and which went several major upheavals (at approximately five-year intervals) before I pushed it to the back burner again because Squatters' Speakeasy was pressing me harder. Later the same day, like about noon: I stopped at Edu Comp, the computer and office supply store, on the way back from town and bought two more loose-leaf binders. See, the reason so many of my clips were accumulating in and around the big red binder was that the big red binder was stuffed. Every time I opened it to insert another sheet protector, a couple dozen sheet protectors would burst off the rings. So I avoided opening the binder, and the unprotected clippings turned yellow, brittle, and dusty on top of it. The overflow is now secured in a smaller brown binder. Nyah nyah, Big Red Binder, I'm not afraid of you (anymore). Second beer of the evening watch: Mission accomplished. The floor is clear again. The shelves are organized and dust-free. The most-used items are within the easiest reach. I know what I have and where it is. Life is good. True, there are some ragged edges: a few sheets of paper that haven't got a home yet, but I'm remembering those carpet weavers, the ones who intentionally wove a flaw into their creations lest their god be angry or they fall prey to hubris. One of the untidy sheafs of paper is the list I compiled of publishers worth querying about Mud of the Place. I'd only got about a third of the way through it before it was submerged in clutter. Now it's out in the open, challenging me to persevere. Also gathered in one place are my fountain pens -- the resident population is up to six -- and bottles of ink. Another challenge. I'm drafting Squatters' Speakeasy in pen and ink, and lately my excuses have included "But I can't find the right pen." The pens are here, the inks are here: choose a pen, fill it; write.
|
|
|||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
 |
|
|||
 |
|
|||
Home - Writing - Editing - About Susanna - Bloggery - Articles - Poems - Contact Copyright ©
Susanna J. Sturgis. All rights reserved. |
||||