Jennifer is sketching. She thinks I can’t tell but she’s using me as a model. I suppose I don’t really move much when I am writing. Tap, tap tap, tap tap, tap. I hope she finishes soon because I want to go check on my wash.
I’m doing a load of laundry. Unfortunately, it isn’t one of those fancy European models that wash and dry. (They do take an awfully long time to do their business. Would not have been the most efficient system to purchase for a compound of 10 people.) The room smells a bit musty so I guess I will take my things upstairs to hang dry in my room.
Someone said “go deep,” while I’ve been thinking feverishly about length. That sounds a bit dirty. With the writing, that is, “go deep,” while I’ve been trying to set goals for number of words per day. Do you burrow for truffles or shoot from the hip and hope you come home with edible game?
The last thing I want to do while I am here is to weigh the risk of either or anything.
But the rest of my practice is calling me. I want to finish the writing and close up shop. I’m not interested in it as a vocation. (There, I’ve said it. Now the literary gods will punish me either by helping me finish quickly but badly, or not letting me finish in which case I will be cursed with this baggage for the rest of eternity.)
I have crossed the divide – unlike Jacob, who confessed that he has a hard time with populist art (looking at it in pictures, let alone going to see it) – and it feels rather like there is no going back. I cannot pretend to enjoy writing for an elite band of practitioners and theorists with the occasional full-fledged amateur. I like, I love, thinking about how to connect with truly average Janes, Joes, Jings, Javiers, and so forth.
Not finishing this book before I roll further in that direction, however, will just bug me. The time is now! Pease dear book, help me write you out.