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November 27th. 10:29AM. My bedroom. Tucked on a desk that’s too small, so I have to spread my keyboard across the gap between it and my bed for yet another odd sort of desk.
It’s maybe more temporary than other things, this desk. It’s totally not a workspace. It’s just so I can send long messages in the morning before I run out into Seattle for things.
Seattle: like I said last time, winter cometh. We’re all finding our method of coping. I admit certain neuroses: I can scrub the grime from doorsteps like a wildman in this sort of weather. I can scrape paint and organize bookshelves with a glee undefined.
But I’ve been getting out. I promised Mom.
The book the book the book: Okay, so as it was known: it is harder to write in a city than it is to write in an idyllic retreat setting. This is not a rumor anymore. People are just too damn interesting. One can sit and imagine the strangeties of the world, or one can just gawk at them, and the latter takes a lot less work.
Has it been going well? Yeah, of course. I’m an optimist.
Are you almost done? Uh no. I’m halfway.
What, why? What happened to your verve?
It’s there, I promise. I’m verveful.
But here’s what happened.
First off: I needed a place to write. I can’t write at home because guess what happens at home?
That's right, they block out your south-side lighting with new construction. That's our fire-escape window there. The second floor with the pot with the dead plants in it.
You need light to write? Not ink?
No, it's true. I could sit next to a different window and right, but let's be honest about writing from home.
So I had to leave.
Here’s a girl working in the place that I tried first:
It’s a great spot called Cafe Cortona on 25th and Union. It worked for one day.
They have a downstairs. You’re free to mingle there. And people in coffee shops— let me just alert you as a longtime 'user de shop'—are interested in meeting someone or learning something. So, the conversations are dynamic; are not the habitual buzz of a bird going about her daily ministrations, or a spider weaving across colored pencils.
I respect people. I love them.
I need to be alone to make things up.
I found out that the Atheneums Writer’s Room, selling for a mere $200 or something a month, is booked through winter.
I was happy it was booked. Sinister garbage.
Turns out the Public Library has a Writer’s Room which is free to apply for.
Okay. Walk with me:
I head straight for the room.
I strongarm the Level 7 Spiral Librarian’s attention, demand entrance through Charismatic Utterances, am rejected through a series of Bureacratic Choff-Tossings, and make my way to the Reading Room instead.
A Writer in the Reading Room. Fine. There are Sleepers. Stinkers. Students. Suspicious Minds. There are Business People and Tourists and Retirees, Veterans; all manner of folk.
Fine. It’s a fine place. It’s huge and airy, plenty to smell, plenty to observe, and—boon for the artist—none of it confronts you. It’s like nature.
I eat lunch very discreetly. And I write.
I’ve got 10 ‘good’ days in since my return, which is less than I’d like.
I’m back on schedule though. I started my charts again. You’d be proud of me.
I made it to the City. That's something I've never done. The books always been a very simple path. Go from the Town to the City. And now I've made it. Scary as hell.
So when will you be done?
I knew you’d ask.
Van said I didn’t have to answer. That I should write the book and make it as damn good as I can. So I’m blaming him.
I’ll keep checking in. And I’ll remind you (and you is probably me), that I promised you I’d finish it. So I will.
If anyone’s in Seattle or the Seattle Area, there’s a Cold Moon Reading I’ll be reading at on Sunday night. I’m going to read some love poems. What’s up.
Oh and I picked up four books I hope to suck the nutrient out of. You might dig them too. I'm sure they'll influence the book:
Also this is Oscar and Alyssa. My local wildlife. Oscar went home yesterday though.