I had my first morning of writing in the studio, not that it is finished. It needs more paint, a bit more trim around the door, things like that, but if I don't get writing, the studio will become the project and not the writing. I hadn't worked on the book for about a semester and I had a scene I had wanted to get finished for several months. It's finished now, at least in a rough first draft. More of a main character came out that I hadn't seen before, which is always the fascinating part about fiction, when the characters start taking over and doing what they want to do. Maybe something is right with this one. I'm hoping for a productive summer.
I hope we can all keep in touch. I've seen too many friends drop off the face of the earth. I wonder if they are lying in a heap at the bottom? Imagine that.

Shed's name

The studio needs a name and I've decided to call it "Rough Draft".

A fearful shed

The exterior work is done. The floor needs to be installed. Then the roofing. The final editing will be the painting. The studio is a lot like writing, from concept to final editing. But as it nears completion, it is taking on its dark dimensions. I plan to enter the shed to descend into the place where the words are found; where the stories dwell. I speak this way because it is a common thread running through the many books on writing that I've read. The authors speak of the place where the words and stories come in terms of descending, caverns, rivers, even Hades. I have feared entering that place and have spend many years avoiding it. I can write glibbly, ironically, cleverly. But does it come from the deepest source of truth? And truth is what I'm after. I take a motto from Brenda Ueland: Be Bold, Be Free, Be Truthful. (I recommend her book, by the way.) The truth can be fearful, however, for the truth reveals what I fear. The studio is a place to pursue the truth, or to be found by it. Maybe that is why the studio has a dark side. It is a place I've dreamed of having for the longest time and the dream is becoming material. Dreams materialized leave the completeness, the etherial beauty of the fantasy and meet a world which may or may not be friendly to the dream.
I look at entering the studio as descending into the place I need to be, want to be, seek to be, and fear to be. The fear should be the least of the worries. Like many folks who live so much in the head (and all the self destructive conversations that rise there) I create fears where fear need not be. Perhaps it is a way to become a hero, for if I overcome the fear, then I am brave and possess courage. It looks like I'm still posting to this blog where I have a reader.

Taking time off

The studio is almost finished. Classes start again next week, teaching possibly three, taking one on line, writing. Right now I'm tired and don't know how much time I'll have for this blog. Check out the one on tsabel.com.

The crate that carried Lindberg's "Spirit of St. Louis" back from France was turned into a poet's cabin (now it's a museum in Maine). While the source of my studio's material has a much more common source, the inspiration remains the same. The studio has had remarkable progress since the last post. The walls are up and sheathed, as is the roof. The windows and doors have been fitted, but not installed. The exterior trim work needs to go on, as does the roofing. Then the task of painting a decorating. The outside will be an attempt at faux brick. The interior (more of a challenge since the walls aren't finished and its all open studs, repelete with nooks and crannies) should be a color to encourage creativity. I hope I haven't worked so hard on it that I'll simply fall asleep. No, it will be a sacred place. A place where I hope to go deeply into the create heart. I'm excited.

Aching hands

Since Monday I've been hard at work on the writer's studio. My hands aren't used to the carpenter's life as they once were. The hammer grows heavy and the wood seems so much heavier than in years past. The wood must have taken on the perverse physical qualities of rooms known in childhood. Those rooms, when revisited as adults, have shrunk in size. The wood has grown heavier and it must be on account of the change in climate. The trees, in an attempt to solve global warming have been working harder and harder to absorb more and more of the excess carbon. While a single carbon atom weighs little, trillions upon trillions add up to an enormous mass, thus weighing down the trees. (Local evidence of this phenomena was experienced in the great ice storm that came throught Fort Wayne. The trees broke apart, not only from the weight of the ice, but also of the weight of the excess carbon atoms.) But despite the increased heftiness of the wood, I'll slog on. The walls are up. Two are covered. The roof is expected to go on before tomorrow's rain. I may be taking a hiatus when the weather goes wet. Photos may be forthcoming.

A Place of His Own

Sorry for the bit of thievery from V. Wolf. I've started on the construction phase of my writer's studio. This is one of those great impractical and, when seen through Firstspace eyes, useless or silly activities. The studio, which is a separate building about 5 x 7 feet, began its life as a collection of packing crates from the IVY Tech construction project Piles of free lumber are exciting to the creative carpenter. These have been deconstructed into their original 2x 4s, 6s, 8s; and many 1 x 3s, 4s, 6s, (and half a bucket of scrap nails). Free windows and a door have been procured. And today I started building it on the other side of the dog's fence. I will be working beyond the pale. It has no electricity. By week's end I hope to be in it, writing. G B Shaw had a writing shed. As have many others.

Insomnia strikes!

What do you do when insomnia strikes? Walk the house looking for sleep? Check the back closet or the forgotten corners? Sleep must be somewhere, where did I put it? I must have mislaid it somewhere. Too bad sleep isn't like the keys or a Walmart reciept needed to return a poorly planned purchase. Sleep vanishes. Or perhaps Macbeth is right: sleep is murdered. Dead sleep. Not the sleep of the dead but the death of sleep itself, and now the sleeper is doomed to wander the castle in a living nightmare.
Enough on sleep. Recieved a rejection on the YA fantasy, again. I don't know if I have the energy to send it out again, poor thing. I labored over it for quite some time and now it is languishing for lack of a publisher. And I doubt if it is as good as I once had thought. I could rewrite it, but I no longer care for it as I once did. Am I a fickle lover? Or a jaded one? Odd what language is used to describe work of my creation. I'll research new horizions for it and send it out again, although I do question whether or not it has an audience.
Another change of subjects. I am embarking on a rediculous project, one that is spurred on by the desire to find a different space, a space to write. I've been collecting packing crates and tearing them down to build a studio, scavaging the neighbor's trash for discarded windows, and working out the design in my mind. Those who write can understand. Those who don't find it curious (no, weird or disdainful). I've found the process exhilarating for it is much akin to writing. I'm taking the flotsam and jetsam of what surrounds me and attempting to reassemble it into something of value. Isn't this what writers do? Don't we take the words that surround us, the experiences we've gathered (many of which have been unintentially gathered), dived into the dumpsters of our lives and try to pull out a treasure? I want the studio completed before too long because I want the summer to write. And read what I've lost.
I think sleep is trying to return. Good night.