It’s winter here. That doesn’t mean very much if you live in one of those places that really has winter; this is sort of San Diego light. But there are days, and Monday was one of them, where it stays dark, chilly, rainy, and windy all day. So I am pretending this is really winter, ignoring the sun and mild temperature this morning, and as a consequence have decided to have the blahs.
As usual, I get the blahs in only a couple of typical ways, one about health, when I don’t feel good, the other about work, when I don’t work good. This is a work blah. Although I am getting over a cold and a couple of days ago had a pretty high fever, watching the World Cup kept my spirits up, so I skipped right over the health blahs — landing with a sticky plop in the dark muck of the work blahs.
I work like this: straight through, chronologically, unable to move to the next page until the one, all the ones, preceding it are finished, even unable to have any idea what the next line will be until the one before it is finished. It’s how my mind works, as well, so it’s not surprising that I write that way. I cannot multi-task and move through thoughts singularly and linearly; I don’t do circular or random. As a thinker and a writer, I am pathologically logical.
So, a long break without working or thinking about work has the result of dissipating all there is, scattering it around my mind in inaccessible, hidden, unknown crevices, fragmenting the whole into disconnected pieces, like finding your jigsaw puzzle, the one nearly finished, has been toppled to the floor and some of the pieces kicked under the sofa or behind the door or eaten by the dog.
This happened on page 285.
So I am going to start all over by sitting down and reading from page 1 through page 285, which I hope will put the pieces back where they belong and recreate the pattern that will allow me to know what the next sentence must be at the top of page 286. Because right now I think that sentence must have been eaten by the dog, but I hope it’s just lost behind the fridge.
One thing that is not dissipated: I know exactly what this story is about.