Alive!

Just a quick note to say that I'm not dead. Although, as this post's title implies, I'm closer to feeling like a desperately stranded person who's one step away from cannibalism than I like. It's nine miles to the nearest town, and twelve to the nearest really healthy supermarket. I get almost no phone reception (and what I do seems to come with roaming charges), and I can't really afford to be distracted by the internet, so I keep the connection upstairs and only check it twice a day. There are more insects out here than I've ever been comfortable hanging around with. And the place is really cold--which makes sense, of course, since it would be insane to burn a lot of oil for one guy in a whole house, especially at today's prices.

You might think this would make for a serene writing experience, but I've been a little surprised there, too. I'm staying at a house that is frequently visited (next drop-in is on Wednesday) and occasionally actually rented out (on Saturday I have to make myself scarce), and I'm learning that having people around unpredictably (as opposed to, say, when I write in a bar or cafe) really throws off my concentration. I also have to keep the place much tidier than I would normally, which sort of limits the extent to which I can enter into the fugue state I usually require. (Just today I was pacing and pacing in tight little circles in the living room--a habit from years back--and I realized, "Oh, damn; I have to take my shoes off in the house!" Stop; remove; start over again from scratch.)

In short, it turns out my muse is kind of a diva. Who knew? And what a pain.

But today is the first full day I've managed it; 1,000 words last night, 2,500 already today and I haven't even cracked a sweat. I hope to finish the day around 6,000. I predict the same for tomorrow, and for any day I can manage to spend alone. And I think I've got enough socked away that I can retreat to a nearby hotel if need be for a day here and there and keep the cycle going. (There's a hotel right at the nearby town, and I have--thank god--access to a car.) Also, after the seventh they'll have cleaned out and spruced up a whole outbuilding that might turn out to be the only room I actually need to write in. So this is just a preliminary review. Things could become perfect very easily.

The transition, however, has been surprisingly difficult, albeit quite educational. Hence the recent blog silence. The fact that I'm writing now is a good sign: it means I've started to figure out how to get lots of writing done and STILL have energy left over to write completely non-book-related things. What's next? More cartoons and poems, maybe? We can hope.