56 pages

I’m 56 pages in to writing a book. Well, actually there are 122 pages with words on them, fully typed in Pages on my Rose Gold colored MacBook Air laptop. It’s saved “in the cloud” and backed up. 

Yes there’s a working title, no I’m not sharing that yet.

I once heard writing is rewriting. I agree. I spend a lot of time going back and rereading and rewriting what I’ve already written. The 56 pages I’m referring to are the ones that I’ve tweaked and fine-tuned so many times I almost have all the sentences memorized. These are the pages if I had an editor I’d say, take a look. Let me know what you think.

If I was back in the 1980s I’d be using a typewriter like the light blueish green one my Mom had. I now have that typewriter sitting across from me on a small wood table in the corner by the window. I type my book, like I’m typing this sentence, at an oak wood dining room table that used to be my Grandmother’s.

One piece of white paper is partially fed through the typewriter because my son started typing his name and his friends names one key at a time, but stopped part way through.

“The inks low,” he said.

I told him I wasn’t sure how I’d get more ink for it, but I could try if he wanted. He didn’t ask me to, but I was fairly certain an Amazon search wouldn’t suffice this time. Over the weekend we set up a different laptop across from me for him to use instead.

I’ve been spending a lot of time writing and he asked me if he was in the story. I said, yes but not in the first part which is about the time I was his age. He said he’d like to write the story of his life too. I smiled.

“I think that’s a great idea,” I said.

After we got his own login, so he didn’t have to use my husband’s or his older brother’s, he carefully selected a password. He told me he chose the same one he uses at school and remembers. I nodded. He said he wasn’t good at typing but was learning in school.

“That’s great,” I said. “I didn’t know how to type until I was in high school.”

“How do you type so fast?” He asked.

“Lots of practice,” I said. “Mommy also writes and types everyday.”

He started looking to find the letters he wanted on the keyboard and slowly began to see his name appear on the screen. Next he typed the date of when he was born. One or two sentences in he sighed, and said it was a lot of work. I told him he could come back another time.

He forgot to save it, and when he came back the next time discovered it was not there. Shoot, I thought.

I absolutely love to work on a sentence until it feels right. Sometimes I’ll work on one sentence for quite a while, and other times it just clicks in place. I enjoy each experience equally. I don’t mind letting it do what it needs to sort its way out. I say it like that because sometimes it feels like my book is coming from a close by place, like it’s being whispered over my shoulder. I feel less in control of what I’m writing, and much more like I’m the channel for which the words arrive.

It feels like a partnership with myself, and I guess is what some writers refer to as having a muse. I’m not too into calling it that, but I do recognize a flow that happens I definitely want to stay in. A sense of ease and almost a peace takes over. I also hesitate to call it a high. The feeling, whatever one should call it, is what keeps me coming back. Call it “being in the zone,” or an all encompassing escape. Call it whatever you like. I hope everyone finds that feeling for themselves doing something they love too. I don’t feel the need to label it, but simply trust it will be there when I sit down if I keep returning.

I write early in the morning, typically 5:15am until 6:45am. I sometimes feel tired like I’m still dreaming and my memories meander and guide my words. I pour black coffee from a French press into a small white ceramic mug with a blue stripe on top. The mug is from my parents’ old house. There was only one until I found another about a year ago in a local curiosity shop, I once played a few original songs at. I alternate using both mugs if one is in the dishwasher. 

I started lighting two candles when I write. I now keep the matches close by up on top of the glass curio cabinet just to the left of me. It was my Grandmother’s and now holds the Lego sets I’ve put together. A small glass vase sits on the window ledge below with water in it. I put the match in the vase upside down after I have lit the candles with it, and blown it out. The candles burn as I type and the smell takes me back and forth in time.

This morning my son came down about the time I typically stop writing and asked me a question, interrupting my thought. This happens a lot, and is my signal to find a stopping point and where I’d like to begin next time I sit down. I picked up a long metal snuffer to stop the flames. He had never seen that done before.

“What’s that?” he asked. “Why don’t you just blow it out?

“This was my Grandma’s, I said. “This is how people used to do it and it keeps the wax from blowing onto the table.” He still looked confused.

He asked me how many pages I was on in my story. I told him 56 pages. His eyes got wide. He said, I only have five sentences. I didn’t know he had started again after losing the first couple he typed and forgot to save. I smiled.

“That’s a great start,” I said.