It is a coincidence, I know, that "home" and "om" rhyme, but I like to ignore that fact and take a deep breath of Pittsburgh -- of this particular house, this street, this desk, this window, this view. I like to relax into another long work event called "writing a novel" while going about the daily work of laundry and phone calls and dental appointments. There's no way I can make the writing go quickly (though I hope to make it go well) and there's no way to make it less scary, but there is this good place called home in which to do the work.
Stories do a lot to stitch the world together. When I started "Witch" I just took off writing and hoped the story and the characters knew what they were doing. It was energizing and exhausting at the same time, living for weeks in a strange dream world that created itself daily (and nightly) in my mind. The characters grew like real people, becoming more concrete, more determined, more willful until eventually I often found myself taking dictation from someone I was pretty sure I had made up.
So here I go again into the narrow crowded stinky streets of 13th century Paris where somehow men were able to conceive of great cathedrals to both inspire and control an illiterate populace. How did they manage the heights, the arches, the story-laden sculpture and the glorious stained glass? And at what costs were those spires driven into the sky? How many bones are in those foundations?
I hope you are off to a summer of good work, gardens and writing and music and the like. May our paths cross. And may you be well.
Stories do a lot to stitch the world together. When I started "Witch" I just took off writing and hoped the story and the characters knew what they were doing. It was energizing and exhausting at the same time, living for weeks in a strange dream world that created itself daily (and nightly) in my mind. The characters grew like real people, becoming more concrete, more determined, more willful until eventually I often found myself taking dictation from someone I was pretty sure I had made up.
So here I go again into the narrow crowded stinky streets of 13th century Paris where somehow men were able to conceive of great cathedrals to both inspire and control an illiterate populace. How did they manage the heights, the arches, the story-laden sculpture and the glorious stained glass? And at what costs were those spires driven into the sky? How many bones are in those foundations?
I hope you are off to a summer of good work, gardens and writing and music and the like. May our paths cross. And may you be well.