“Isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?”
-L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables
My dream is to write for kids and my mom is patiently waiting for this to happen. For my birthday, she gave me the most thoughtful, inspirational gift: An adorable bird jar (pictured above) filled with quotes from children’s books. Each quote is cut out, rolled, and wrapped with a colourful ribbon. Brilliant, right?
Today, I unrolled the L.M Montgomery quote, above. Yesterday, words from Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland: “Sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
Best. Present. Ever.
I didn’t get to enjoy June’s entrance thanks to a flu that knocked me down for a week. Able to (somewhat) function today, I made it outside to see that most of my lilac is on the ground and I missed the bloom of the alliums.
So, I did what any rational flu-recovering individual would do: I grabbed my camera to stand in the drizzling rain in order to capture the last bit of spring.
I’m having a terrible time writing today.
Write. Delete. Write. Delete.
I write four posts that I’m not happy with. The concepts are okay but the execution is lacking, none of them feel finished. I try to edit but that doesn’t go well — my inner Mean Editor Lady screams for me to trash it.
For a change of pace, I flip to my homework. I read through some narrative voice examples and begin to feel a sense of excitement for a character I’ve been trying to develop for months. There’s a distance from her that I haven’t been able to close but I think I might finally have it figured out.
I grab my character notes but scribble only a few lines before I’m distracted by a rough draft of my character’s first scene. Mean Editor Lady slaps her bifocals back on and begins to rip apart every sentence, “What are you playing at, silly girl. Your idea is good, perhaps you could tell it to someone who can write.”
A successful day of writing for me is a little like congratulating myself for putting a load of laundry in the washer. “Way to get things done, Kath! You’re amazing. Awesome job knocking down that To-Do list.” Riding a euphoric wave of accomplishment back upstairs, seven other things distract me and I forget about the washer until the dank stink of neglect settles into the fibres of every shirt and unmentionable contained within.
My words have been permeated with stink. I’ve let myself get distracted, leaving projects too long. Here’s hoping that, like that extra splash of detergent added to the family’s clothes as they swish through a rinse cycle, a little editing will flush the stench.