Dazed but not overtly confused

One of two recent quilt finishes, more about those in the next post.

Yesterday I did something I have never done before. I deleted the first chapter, save the last paragraph, of my new novel.

I suppose there's a first time for everything, but wow. Yet, as I wrote that alleged first chapter, I felt detached. I was even, gasp, distracted by my phone. That NEVER HAPPENS when I write, other than a quick glance at the screen in case it's an important text or call. So yeah, a day of writing went down the tubes, except for that final paragraph, which I liked and kept at the end of the rewritten first chapter.

Today I wrote Chapter 2 as though the initial Chapter 1 never existed. I wrote with total abandon, I wrote from a place in my head and heart that cut me off from where I am right now, in February, in Humboldt County. Instead I was in Corning, California in the heat of June, where a twelve-year-old girl was hoping to find the secrets her late mother had left behind. After completing most of the chapter, I saved the work, then went downstairs, starting myself a coffee. Waiting for it to brew, I sat near a window in the sun, which felt good against my legs because it's not ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit here, but maybe fifty. I stared out the window, absently taking in the view, but within me I was far away where it was warm, dusty, but absent of all the information Ryder was hoping to find.

My husband came in, noting that the pork shoulder roast had another ten minutes on the timer until it was time to check it. I said, "Okay."

He then said, "Are you all right?"

I said, "Yeah."

He huffed slightly. I smiled, then added, "I'm waiting for coffee. Just sitting here, trying to absorb what I wrote."

He said, "Oh, okay," or something equally relieved that I wasn't mad at him for an unrealized sleight. Again I smiled, then got up, finding my coffee was done. I put in a little sugar, a fair amount of milk, stirring it well, then returned to my seat in the sun, wondering how odd was it that this novel had such a strange start, but then today I was back to prosey business. How after writing that excised chapter immediately I felt disconnected from it, as though it was written my a different Me, not Future or Past, but Some Other Me Who Had Invaded My Brain For A Morning.

A few minutes later the timer went off, and I headed to where my spouse was taking the roast from the oven. I added a little water to it, then he put it back in. Usually I start the roast, but he did it this time, and I think he appreciated me making sure there was enough water in the pot, which I'll turn into gravy in about twenty minutes. Because after all this, I finished my coffee, completed the chapter, then added carrots, onions, garlic and red potatoes to the pot. Then I returned to my computer to read over what I'd written, cleaning up the glaring mistakes, then saving it to a flash drive. And now I'm writing this, still a little in awe of the whole noveling process.

How a story emerges, or then gets axed, but continues nonetheless. How deeply I become entangled in a world basically real but also of my own making. How no matter how many books I've written, once in a while a story emerges that right off the freaking bat requires a rethink. Well, all but the probe landing unseen on the Martian landscape, hehehe.

I'll deal with the probe tomorrow. For now, it's time to check that roast!