Typing Down the House

There's the merry whine of a saws-all whirring downstairs, accompanied by the clatter of falling wood and plaster dust. Random thumping and hammering blends harmoniously with the assorted grunts of workmen. And I, trying valiantly to sit and create in this mess, am getting a headache. Yes, this is the I'm-trying-to-work-here,-people rant.

You'd laugh if you saw where I am -- desk shoved back into a corner and half-covered by plastic sheeting. It's chaos and drama, but I just had to sit down and write today. Aside from the really good reason of finally having an agent show interest in my work (what am I saying "finally?!!" I've finally contacted one! My fault no one showed interest prior to that!!), I wanted to write today because I realized that if I don't write I feel... Disconnected. The 'wrestling match with my Muse' that began so long ago has become second nature. Email, essays, something -- I've just got to write.

And -- no! This isn't meant to be one of those write-every-day things they tell you in Grad school that you sort of go grey just thinking about. I'm not trying to say that I never have a bad day -- far from it! I think I've just slowly come to realize that a bad day writing is better than a good day... doing a whole lot of other things. I've had to enlarge my definition of what writing is, and what it does for me, and let myself be a part of the process of writing -- which sometimes means reading, sometimes means thinking and letting my thoughts range wide into dreams.

And now I sound all esoteric and crap. So I'm going to stop.

Meanwhile, my creativity isn't exactly sparking at this moment (due to the fact that it feels like one of those sledgehammers is crunching right between my eyes), and I have a bunch of files I'm supposed to go through for one of my many part-time jobs, but I'm here. Still hanging in there.

Hope you are too.