So I'm into heavy editing now, after three months of sending 30 pages to France, where my Humber School for Writers instructor lives, and receiving 34 pages back -- four of her notes plus my edited pages. Knowing that this day was coming, that this was the week I'd begin diving into her marks and remarks, I've been anxious and twitchy, that combination of anticipation and fear that comes as the start of an important, hopefully life-changing project.
It's not pretty to live with but my husband has seen this before, knows as soon as I sit down and begin to type, when I finally stop finding other distractions and actually begin to type, the anitici-fear will become excitement and belief that yes, this can be done after all.
When I'm writing or editing intensely, I eat less and walk more, heading out to the woods every time I surface and realize I'm hunched over cramped up both in legs and brain. At five o'clock this afternoon, I went out for my third walk of the day. The sky was slate grey, the sun a fuzzy pale yellow circle in the clouds. Snow is coming. The wind was raw against my face, waking me up, blowing the threads of used thoughts from my head. The dog was running in zig zags, scooping up snow with her mouth. Her black nose and whiskers became white, instant old age.
And I smiled because this --
-- this field, this space
this walk, this dog,
this writing, this inspiration,
this breathing space, this stretching space
-- is exactly why I live here.
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