December 23, 2014 § 2 Comments
Another dream: On foot, j-walking past a policeman skulking in a doorway, I hop an elevator up to my studio. Covering the floor of the elevator is my stuff. I’ve been evicted! The elevator stops at the top. I hold in my arms the classic lone box of worldly possessions, but I can’t tell what – if anything – is in it. It’s really dark. So is my stuff on the floor. I can’t even make out the shapes of things. A sliver of light comes through the doors which are open an inch or two. It’s sky. There’s nothing out there. I’ll have to jump!
I wake up and realize my next step will be a leap of faith. But it’ll be a good day for flying. The sky is blue with puffy white clouds. The dark stuff is past (burned to a char from last week’s post). I get to choose what goes in the box, if anything. And now that I’ve been thinking about it for a couple days, who needs it? A box is useless. Doors about to open…
TIP: Should wings not sprout immediately, worry not – ask about the bridge… xo Pierr
December 16, 2014 § 4 Comments
Had a meltdown today. Caught me unawares – a few, seemingly unrelated incidents over the last few days led up to it. Terrifying being so close to the end. At least it is for me. Out of nowhere comes an urge to destroy – who will ever read it – care about it as I have – what was…is…my point? I’m the fire demon. Scorching horns. Raging appetite for a stick figure writer with barely a leg to stand on. Senses consumed by heat.
Hoo-boy I was mad. But not for long. I didn’t run this time, I wrote about it, stayed with it and cooked in the flames as if turning on a spit, seeing things from different perspectives. Then sparks…an idea…
December 9, 2014 § Leave a comment
A noun and a verb which rhymes with disturb, Pierrturb, blurb and herb. The first 180 pages of this draft look pretty good to me. Now I’ve come to the last 50. The post-its are deceiving. Which is a good thing, they get me excited to charge ahead as if these bright spots are all I need to tweak and ta-da! magically the pages flow and the novel is finished.
Truth? They read as a tangled mess. My comb is no match for them.
TIP: Got shears? It’ll grow back.