At the coffee house in coffee every day and morning. THe process of being somewhere else, of travel, of being removed, transplanted. The road between and the house swallowed – the homecoming and the words between them. Fragments.
Green buildings with slanted roofs. Efficient closet space. Staked rooms like bridges. Someone comes then leaves. In circles. They repeat. Characters. What they wear, their voices, movements, Catalogued and kept in files, stored. I can order at a moment’s notice. The women in the corner in the pink jacket and oversized sunglasses.
The pages turn. This is out of place – fractured. The sun in March is cold but sharp, brilliant. the light bounces and the snow castles on the roof begin to slide and melt. My husband strikes at the overhang from our bedroom window with the end of ski pole. On the porch just beyond the sun, the overhand – melting, transition. The sense of sliding.
THe road stretches through the horizon. Big Sky. I watch the sky collapse into itself – the blue and the clouds forming within. I watch the weather come in, donut storms that wisp between sun and its shadow. Cars between folds. Arcs. A maze of possible foundations.
Ink – the ink.
I consider references. I should leave a quote here – trace a path – something to indicate that this has evolved to more than the rambles of a starved writer, high on coffee and syrup, ignoring the inevitable block that manifests like a sickness, at page 100.
Page 1 was easy – accepted rambles. Near desperate enthusiasm. Page 1 became page 10. Shifting page nomads.
I explain too much, I realize in editing, narrate beyond. Restless. I am afraid of being read. It’s the truth. I divide the pages into sections and then, into paragraphs hoping to slip deep beneath the plot. The real art of the novel lies in its deletion, escape.