Some days everything seems a mess. You awaken at 4 a.m. and can’t go back to sleep. Excited to write in the peace, but your mind can’t settle on the main writing project. It can’t settle anywhere. You write anyway.
You discover that some writing on the novel that you know you saved a month ago is now lost in a computer, not the new one, the old one. Or maybe you didn’t save it. You know you wrote it, but it isn’t there. You want to throw up your hands and leave the computer. You keep writing anyway.
The furnace broke on the weekend, is still broken. You are called from your desk to hold the flashlight for Bigstreetrod to measure the part he says is needed to fix the furnace–the one that costs $200, and whether it fixes it or not is a guess. You feed the cat, get more tea, and go back to writing on the novel, even though you’re not sure where in the world you are on it.
Your eighty-four year old mother is walking around, when she walks at all, in sweat pants, tunic sweat shirt, a down-filled vest (I think she slept in it beneath three comforters), socks and fuzzy slippers, because it is sixty-seven in the house. The electric radiator can warm only her bathroom, she refuses to sit in the family room where the fireplace burns brightly. You think of this as you keep on writing anyway.
It is now time to cook breakfast and have made so little headway because your mind refuses to focus. Your instinct is to just grab toast and deli meat, but then your cold mother doesn’t have a proper breakfast. You keep writing.
A memory comes. A clerk at Wal-mart commented, “Some days you come into the checkout station and everything is in order and all works. Other days you come in, and it’s a real struggle.” She still has to check out customers.
Life is like that. It is messy and disjointed, and you write anyway, because you are determined to write something, anything, that is of a whole piece. Because if you waited for things to settle down, for having nothing to do but write, no interruptions or worries or a settled mind, you would never write
You write anyway.
Now that I’ve convinced myself, it’s back to the novel.