where the writers are
The Writing Day #33

The days of writing, editing, revising and polishing the novel continued, not news in itself but this is how life often works.  "What have you been up to?" people ask.  "What have you been doing?  What's new in your life?" 

They usually mean besides working for my employer.  My work isn't changing the world.  Although it occupies eight to ten hours a day Monday through Friday, 'Stories of Work' usually fails titallating audiences unless your work is unusually unique.  Mine isn't and people don't want to hear of it.  They'll also pass on cat tales and cat issues, yard work, house work, and home improvement. Those are the dregs of daily living.  They want to know what you've done with your time, not what you're doing. 

But telling them of the novel is useless.  It's incomplete.  They want a publication date, not that I'm typing, editing, thinking, revising and polishing. One lectures me, "Life is more than just working." Retired, he's gone hiking and canoing, photographing wild life like birds and deer, and the pretty trees with their pretty leaves turning.  His photos are posted online, Facebook or Pinterest or something. 

There's that tangible difference.  After months of writing, I have a manuscript, still in progress, but nothing for others to share and know.  That challenges them with wrapping their heads around 'what I've been doing.'  They don't understand how enjoyable this writing process is, that, like a hike, the effort is as enjoyable as the finish. 

Yesterday was an amazing writing day, lifting my spirits and infusing me with vigor and excitement.  Yet it was like so many other writing days - read, revise, create - clicking away on a mouse and keyboard.  That's how it is with the writing life. 

It was not a perfect day.  I'd written a blog post in early morning but lost my Internet connection when I clicked the Save button.  Post, gone.  I had another to write last night - indeed, wrote it - but decided not to share it.  Too much whinging embedded in those words.  I whinge too much. 

Part of the writing day yesterday's reward is how the novel stayed with me.  Phantom writing continued in my head.  By late last night, a list resided in my head of what to change so I went in and did some.  Awakening this morning, the phantom writer had continued at it.  I knew what next to write and went in there and did it. 

So it's been another good writing day already today.  I'm in that zone, riding the curling cresting waves of ideas and creativity, rising higher, traveling faster, just me in the tube, an individual achievement.  Others can wonder, "What have I been doing?"  I can't really describe to them the wondrous adventure of riding the wave. 

Break is over.  Time to return to writing like crazy.