I arrived back on Saturday, exhausted but mentally energized. The last few days were intense. I was functioning on very little sleep but had so much adrenaline that it didn't matter. Friday night we had our student reading. I read an excerpt from my novel, I've never read it aloud before. After the student reading we had a dance party. I danced my booty off. I hadn't danced in a while and was pretty to be shaking it. At one point in the evening I requested some New Wave and when it came on, only one other person and me were the ones dancing. Whiskey was involved.
Now comes the work. During a panel on publishing ZZ Packer said something that has stuck in my brain. She said even if we only write one page a day at the end of the year we'll have 365 pages. I can do that, I ca do better. I've been living with my characters for so long now, they really deserve to have their damn story told already. Daunting daunting daunting. There are so many layers to this damn thing but I started the journey and can't abandon it, I'd never forgive myself anyway.
I am in love out of my head with a book I purchased at City Lights. Written in Water: The Prose Poems of Luis Cernuda. I've loved Cernuda for years since I discovered his work during a very odd night in Valencia, Spain, involving Matt Dillon movies, hashish and a woman showing me some very awkward sexual self-portrait masturbating on piles of garbage. I escaped the madness by scooping up a Cernuda book and was blown away. In certain respects, some of his writing reminds of me of Rilke. I've only read him in Spanish as well, besides my attempts at translating his work. *sigh* I've found when I read writers I really love something happens to my own writing. It is influenced by the lyricism, music and something magic that exists in the writers I find myself coming to over and over again.
What If I Do?