I woke up early today. For the last few months I’ve been without a schedule, waking and sleeping at will, getting work done in intense bursts without any sense of daily structure. After years of trying to find the perfect schedule I’ve come to grips with the ebb and flow of things. A few months of random chaos, a few months of tidy organization. I’ll never settle on one or the other. There’s a pleasure in novelty, in mixing things up, and I’m grateful to have the freedom to follow my whims. If the work gets done, who cares what the clock says? I’ve done my time in the 9-5. Well, it was more like 7-7. For years and years my first sight of the day was my husband’s back as he zoomed out the door to catch his bus. He’s sleeping now. Let him sleep. Let him enjoy his dreams while I enjoy the solitude of the morning.
Up at 5:30. At the gym by 6. My Watchy exploded and sent my black plastic buttons flying while I was on the exercise bike. I got a nice stretch picking up all the pieces. LOL. Nothing is wasted today.
Shower. Zip across the street to Starbucks. I wish they’d open up the seating so I could sit there with my laptop and write.
I copied out (typed) 2 pages of a Michael Connelly book this morning, and I was surprised to find myself bored with his sentences. Connelly’s stories are strong, but his sentences don’t thrill me. They’re utilitarian and rigid, like the sound of someone hammering. Whack-Whack-Whack. Terry Pratchett has gorgeous sentences but I grow weary of the spectacle after a chapter or two. It’s like cycling with a bicycle set on too high of a gear. Lots of spin for a small movement forward. Grisham surprised me the most. His deft hand has a way of pulling you through the story like you’re riding an oiled zipline. King may be the best. He lures you in, makes you comfortable. But before you know it he’s got you by the throat. I’ve never learned as much from a writing class as I have from typing out other people’s work.
Coffee’s half gone. Jessica’s waiting. Music’s on.
Into the book I go.