Thursday, September 11, 2008

patience was never my strong suit

Cicadas are leaving their shells everywhere—it looks like a fleet of bugs had to make a quick getaway, and left their coats behind. One is caught in a web on our porch, and our neighbor’s fence is studded with them: eerie and ghostlike.

Reminds me that autumn is, after all, a time of shedding. I much prefer orange and yellow seas of leaves, though, to pale beetle-y skins.

You know how much I love fall. But somehow, the change in the air has been making me crazy today. And this past week. (Past month?)

First, I decided, in late August, that it was time for fall cleaning. I dragged everything out of the nooks and crannies in my room—how did I get so many file folders? I mean… I have a lot of file folders.

Then I embarked on a complete overhaul of my book collection—which is overflowing its two and a half bookcases, should I get another? And after my cleaning urge died down (with my project half done… file folders still litter my room), I had a cooking fit. In part inspired by the Gourmet cookbook, I have to admit. This morning’s triumph?

Mini apple pies, yum.

None of this is too troubling, really. I’m the only one tripping over my piles of junk, and my family’s happy enough to eat what I make.

It’s the urge to shed my novel that worries me.

I’ve had three solid weeks of real progress. Characters growing and talking and waking me up at night and tugging me out of bed in the mornings. Plot twists falling at my feet—new scenes so perfect they make me run around the house screeching. And suddenly, this morning, I turned on my computer and looked at my draft and just put my head on my desk. Can I please be done?

Or maybe—let’s do something else. Short stories have their allure… It was a wonderful feeling to launch a story at the end of August. I could just whip out another one and send it off too, right? This could be addictive. Or I could pick up poetry again, what about that? Or maybe apply for a job, maybe it’s time for a job…

Or at the very, very least, I could make myself useful and set fire to my file folders and pretend they never existed. (Why do I save so much stuff?)

I even drank out of my “begin.” mug this morning, but all I wanted was one that said “the end.” or “hey, you’re all finished!” or “the book is glorious and agents are looking for you!!” or maybe just “try something else.”

I plodded through two hours with a scene I used to adore, but I think my characters were being silly, or just playing along to get me to go away.

I could pull my hair out.

All this to say, I’m looking with more sympathy, or at least approval, at the cicada shells. Because I’m feeling itchy too, itching for change (maybe Europe? I could be at the airport in thirty minutes flat). So these trees had better hurry it up and change to their reds and yellows, because something, something needs to be different.—jl

Posted by Jenn Langefeld on 09/11 at 06:48 PM
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