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leahbobetJanuary 21, 2012 Progress Notes:
On Roadstead Farm
Words today: 150.
Words total: 12,600.
Reason for stopping: It's late, and I'm not getting too far by kicking at it.
Darling du Jour: Something hot and liquid meandered down my forearm and I knew it was life, I knew it was [SPOILER]'s, rusting out like a fieldmouse hawk-caught behind the hay barn.
Words Hallie Won't Admit to Knowing: N/A.
Mean Things: In write-ahead signposting land, the possible grim midwinter death of the only family you have left.
Research Roundup: Qualitative sound of Canadian accents to American ears.
Books in progress: Alissa York, Fauna.
Not a lot of words when you stack them up next to each other, but important ones. I found where I went the wrong way. This is the roughed-out bones of a signpost, about three chapters down the road that goes the right way.
Still a bit coldy here; enough that I'm staying in evenings instead of going out. Still, there was high tea around suppertime with a friend who's visiting from Sault Ste. Marie this week, and then one of those clear-breathed nighttime walks home that are just you and the sharp cold air and your headphones, crunching through side streets in the snow, following the instinctive compass that lives in your belly west, west, homeward; the kind where you know just how deep you're connected to the browned grass and asphalt beneath you, the strings of streetlights, the dogwalkers, the club kids, the world.
It was a good walk. I don't care if it's contributed to my sniffles right now; I've needed that for a little while.
Bed, now, to think about my right way and my wrong turn. And narrative texture.
On Roadstead Farm
Words today: 150.
Words total: 12,600.
Reason for stopping: It's late, and I'm not getting too far by kicking at it.
Darling du Jour: Something hot and liquid meandered down my forearm and I knew it was life, I knew it was [SPOILER]'s, rusting out like a fieldmouse hawk-caught behind the hay barn.
Words Hallie Won't Admit to Knowing: N/A.
Mean Things: In write-ahead signposting land, the possible grim midwinter death of the only family you have left.
Research Roundup: Qualitative sound of Canadian accents to American ears.
Books in progress: Alissa York, Fauna.
Not a lot of words when you stack them up next to each other, but important ones. I found where I went the wrong way. This is the roughed-out bones of a signpost, about three chapters down the road that goes the right way.
Still a bit coldy here; enough that I'm staying in evenings instead of going out. Still, there was high tea around suppertime with a friend who's visiting from Sault Ste. Marie this week, and then one of those clear-breathed nighttime walks home that are just you and the sharp cold air and your headphones, crunching through side streets in the snow, following the instinctive compass that lives in your belly west, west, homeward; the kind where you know just how deep you're connected to the browned grass and asphalt beneath you, the strings of streetlights, the dogwalkers, the club kids, the world.
It was a good walk. I don't care if it's contributed to my sniffles right now; I've needed that for a little while.
Bed, now, to think about my right way and my wrong turn. And narrative texture.
