I fully intended to write a blog post over the weekend. I had an idea for the subject, and figured all I had to do was sit down and rattle it off when I had a minute, but it didn’t work out that way. I spent most of Saturday outside doing yard work, something I thoroughly enjoy on a nice day. That, incidentally, inspired a reflection on just how much of a historical mindset I have. Machinery in general is not my forté. But I didn’t realize that I had the horse mentality so thoroughly ingrained as to make me always conscientiously approach the riding lawnmower from the near side. Not that I really expected it to kick me if I tried mounting on the off side, but you never know.
Anyway, when I was finished with my outdoor work I had the time, theoretically, for that easy-as-pie blog post, but hadn’t the energy, so I joined some of my family in watching basketball instead. My thirteen-year-old sister is a die-hard Memphis Grizzlies fan, and I am a Celtics fan by long tradition, so Saturday was quite a day in that department. I can’t say that watching playoffs is a relaxing pursuit, but at least it doesn’t require as much thought as writing. Then yesterday I was busy cooking a special dinner for Mother’s Day…so the concept I had for a great post once again got filed for a future occasion.
The one significant literary thing that happened to me over the weekend was the resurrection of a certain notebook – a pink fifty-cent notebook with a crease down the cover, almost full of scrambled notes for what was my NaNoWriMo 2009 project, a murder mystery set in rural Wyoming circa 1930. I made the 50k word goal that year, but I typed the manuscript and did it out of order, so all I ended up with was fragments. Overwhelmed by the mess, I put it aside and haven’t added to it since…but every once in a while, usually after reading a mystery, some instinct prompts me to pull out that notebook and add something. And believe it or not, it’s developed. Since 2009 I’ve totally reworked the outline (I don’t think it’s giving anything away to say that I’ve changed the identity of the criminal twice since my first tentative sketch of the idea several years ago), cut certain plot elements, cut out an important character and then put him back in again, added more red herrings and changed the significance of certain events…all without writing one single word in the actual manuscript.
It’s a book that won’t leave me alone. My instinct is telling me that there must be a story hidden in that mess if I can only find it. It feels a little like Michelangelo’s theory of releasing the hidden sculpture. It’s not often that I get a “feeling” about something I’ve written, and I don’t know how much stock to put in it, but I’m certainly not going to ignore it. This time when the notebook calls, I’m going to see if I can apply the practical lessons I’ve learned since that NaNo attempt to chipping away at the mass of notes and bringing the essence of the story out into the open. I don’t know how long it will take, but I can’t help that feeling that something will come out of it someday.
photo: Wyoming in the 1930s, by Marion Post Wolcott (Library of Congress)