I’ve been working on a short book, another memoir in the same style as GEOGRAPHIC—flash prose mixed with poetry. It’s about my father, his death, my near death experience as a young woman, and more. I’m about a year and a half in. It is called BLUEBEARD’S CASTLE—and much of it has been test driven on this blog.
I printed out a copy to read. Despite my lifetime of being a writer, my emotions began to swing wildly—it was so smooth and lucid, it needed a huge amount of editing, I finally told the truth, the flow was off, and on and on—back and forth.
In the morning cool before the full heat of the day—heat made even less tolerable from all the smoke of the zero contained wild fire to the south—I sat outside on the patio by the roses, the garden freshly watered. Two curve billed thrashers were visiting the damp from their usual home in the front yard’s cholla, currently blossoming crimson.
I popped inside to refresh my cup of coffee and came back to find an almost imperceptible wind had scattered the first thirty pages. Luckily they were more or less numbered consecutively. Cursing, I picked them up, sorted them back together. One page was gone—maybe wind, maybe a printing error.
I sat down to read in earnest. It’s really quite good. I love it—at least so far. Let me just say I’m glad I wrote it. I’m grateful too to find myself still young at heart as a writer—worried, neurotic, self critical. I’m grateful I have problems to solve. I’m grateful my skill set is finely honed and I can solve them. And I am most grateful to the problems of writing I still can’t resolve, because it allows me to continue.
Speaking of GEOGRAPHIC (Casa de Snapdragon, 2016) last night we found it it won a Southwest Book Design Award!