Dateline – Thursday Night, a dry Eugene evening. Weeks of unseasonable dryness in the Pacific Northwest. A car coughs to life down on the street, fanbelt squealing with outrage. No chance of making sense on a savage, dreary night where all seems ominous and the signs point to doom. Take inventory of our present space, what might be of use in the hours ahead?
Light from a street lamp pours across bare countertops. Unpaid bills. Worn running shoes. Scribbled notes and broken paint brushes. Movements can take years to grow, minutes to collapse. There’s comfort in knowing my market share in failure is relatively small compared to others. Obscurity is an underappreciated treasure.
Tomorrow, I’ll wake to a shelf full of mismatched coffee cups and a pot of coffee, keeping me lashed to the keyboard. Hour after hour, whipping the keys with prose and dialogue. Nothing but to contemplate the winter of our discontent, pages of narrative that structure the orientation and facilitate the rising action eventually leading to pulse-pounding action. Our duty is clear, our job is essential. No escape from my portion of pursuit … writing every day until the book is complete.
What if I didn’t write? What else is there, DoorDash and dead-end jobs? What would I look forward to? Writing’s a hard dollar, but at least I don’t feel like it’s costing me my soul.
Cutting it off for now. I got writing to do in the morning.
