My editing experiment yesterday was fruitful. I suffered through it at times but new practices often contain suffering. I took a dance class last weekend that had my thighs suffering for days but I'm going back because despite the pain, I loved it.
My editing took hours. I was distracted several times by the internet. I was also distracted by an old book I found at the swap meet last summer, An Encyclooaedia of Occultism. What a strange book. When I first opened it I went directly to the passage about Mexico. The section begins : Occult science among the ancient Mexicans may be said to have been in that stage between savage simplicities of medicine men and the more sophisticated magical practices of the mediaeval sorcerer. Ah yes, savage simplicities, well aware of those; complicated astronomical calculations, feats of architecture that can barely be replicated today, the motherfucking invention of zero. . . Savages.
This morning during my meditation I saw a scene I really wanted to jump up and write down, but I was meditating, so I didn't. It was a scene involving the parents of my protagonist. It was beautiful, I felt the ache of it, the pull of the characters toward each other despite circumstances that said no. But my book isn't about them, not really. They're story is peripheral. I struggle. I wrote out maybe fifty pages of their story during my planning out stages, of the the events that lead up to where my book starts. I'm kind of obsessed with the parents, the place they live, their challenges. Oh Lizz. Focus. This brain, fertile indeed.