Each novel draft must be written in a particular place. And this fourth major revision of my new novel is getting itself written in a big cold room with a lot of windows, where the temperature is sixty tops. As a hedge against the effects of my Renaud’s syndrome, I have a heating pad for my feet, and also an electric neck warmer. I wear two long-sleeved shirts, insulated pants, two vests and a jacket to write.
But so many things call me away from writing. The Donkeys need extra attention when it is below zero. If we have an extended sub-zero period, if I ever see Jack and Don Quixote are shivering, I will put blankets on them. They love their blankets, but the blankets can be dangerous because they can get snagged on trees or shrubs in the pasture, and the boys jump on one another, and a foot or leg could get caught in the blanket straps, and both donkeys could go down. And as you might expect, once I put the blankets on the donkeys, they don’t want me to take them off, and I won’t be able to take them off until the weather warms way up.
Yes, I am a worrier. I am worried about donkeys and the politics of our nation, and I am worried about my niece at college who never dresses warmly enough, and I’m worried about my new novel. The list is endless.
I’m very worried about whether I can make the novel good enough. I’ve got characters I love and worry about, an impossible situation, and—get this—my new novel is a Christmas story, and so I know that I have to pull out a warm, cozy, joyful ending, while never violating my own bitterly realistic sensibility. Yes, I have a plan, but if you saw the novel right now, you would wonder if I could pull it off.
Yes, I am at the stage in the novel where, as Ann Lamont suggests, one should be careful not to be hit by a bus (I think I’m remembering this correctly, from Bird by Bird). One must be very careful not to be hit by a bus and killed, because if one were to die now, then somebody would open up the document I’ve been toiling on and come to the conclusion that I killed myself because of how bad my novel was.
So in a sense, this stage of writing a novel is very life affirming. I will not die, cannot go down, because I cannot leave such a ragged piece of fiction on my computer. I will live to make it better. Just one of many reasons to live, despite all the trouble and toil in our lives and our nation. To make this novel good is even, just maybe, a reason to be cozy, warm, and joyful. Cheers, friends!
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