One of the incredible things about living with a writer is how much time we spend talking about writing. In the last five weeks the work has gone to a deeper level. I'm not really writing too much these days (in another submission frenzy) but I'm digging deep.
We spent much of yesterday working on individual project in the courtyard of the apartment complex. I was slogging through pretty difficult historical and anthropological texts. I pulled a few gems out and had some things clarified but I'm not writing a historical fiction. I'm being influenced by a particular period in time. The research is fascinating and it often breaks my heart. I'm in the build-up phase before a fertile period, like an underground zit aches below the surface of the face until it emerges and takes over. (Those of you who know, know. Take zinc, it helps.)
I'm stepping carefully back into my meditation practice, I let go of it almost completely this summer. It isn't easy coming back. One of the many benefits of a daily practice is that is keeps things level, allows, and allows for surrender. When I'm off my practice (and I try so hard not to judge myself, but I do) I trip, fall and all the old crap comes up, stuff I know I'm not really dealing with. Old patterns, fears, little triggers. The mind is dangerous that way, holding on to old poisons and letting them loose. I recognize them, acknowledge them and try to move the F on. But humanness is tricky.
My solitude hasn't been affected too much by cohabitation, which was my biggest fear. Luckily H and I both like a lot of time on our own. We retreat to different parts of the apartment and spend hours working on our own. Grad school is a full time job so H is constantly reading and writing and re writing. I read a lot and have been editing like crazy. Tomorrow is the deadline for several places I'm submitting work