September is here, trailing magic in its wake. The boys are back to school full-time now, and after a summerlong drought, writing is happening.
I feel guilty when I’m not writing–though, in a sense, I’m never not writing. Even when the screen sits blank and the paper lies smooth and unassaulted, stories are happening inside my head. I think I need that fallow time. I sat down to write on Tuesday morning, and wound up with over eight full pages of notes toward a story that yesterday I didn’t think I was ready to tell. By Thursday afternoon, I’d filled a notebook and completed a detailed outline.
I disturbed myself earlier on Tuesday morning by realizing that this story involves a cave. My first novel prominently featured a cave, as did my second one. I had a brief moment of panic, during which I hung up the laundry and wondered if I have some deep-seated Freudian/Jungian/Campbellian/Darth-Vader-in-a-tree issues of which I’ve heretofore been blissfully unaware. What is up with all the caves?!, I imagined some future reviewer exclaiming, throwing up her hands in disgust. “Throwing up her hands” is a weird expression. Is self-cannibalism a thing? I’m not ready to know.
Anyway, thankfully, I slowly recalled that my third book does not in any way involve a cave, and that the closest it gets is a character laying on the ground. [sigh of relief–I do not have issues. Not those issues, anyway.] Oh, and the fourth one doesn’t, either. Okay, I am not obsessed. Not with caves, at any rate. I may be okay.
If my near-miss with cave-obsession has anything to do with the fallow places, perhaps it is this–that I overthink this process. I should probably get back to my story.