Evaluating the summer

My summer began slowly, largely because of my gray weather funk, but once some warm weather arrived I was in full writing mode. The novella changed in major ways and became more layered, more challenging, more important to me, more a major work in my canon; all of which are good. I still have very much work to do, of course, but my vision makes sense to me. I have no deadline. I would like to finish before next summer, which strikes me as very possible. I may have a draft in October but the rewriting process strikes me as especially difficult. After all, there are countless orders for the vignettes, more choices for "flash back" historical vignettes than I need, so getting the balance is important, and getting the order that retains the forward thrust of the central narrative is important. The work has hardly begun. It's exciting, however, to have a notion of the book's ending and to actually draft a possible last paragraph -- with an action I really like. A lot. It may stay.

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A librarian at my local branch that I've gotten to know has semi-retired, going to 20 hours a week. I asked if he were a closet writer. Yes! He is going to write a novel. I wish him well.

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I was bitching about something or other yesterday when H reminded me that we're both old farts, and in this culture old farts are pretty much ignored. I made the observation that in the 80s I got much more favorable press than any local writer gets today, etc etc etc on my grandstand of the good old days, and she reminded me of how many old fart writers don't have this at all, have no time of "glory" to look back to, and what's it all really worth anyway? And I said, well, it's not fame and fortune I desire but respect, and H said I already have it among people who were here when I was visible, and this is about where we stopped because this topic has no resolution and no point other than my ego flapping in the wind.

And there's already an equivalent of this emotion in the novella. Whole cloth, whole cloth. Never doubt it.