Making sense

Anne Lamott, on writing ...

"We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason why they write so little. But we do. We have so much we want to say and figure out.”

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Fifteen hundred words ~

"That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones."
 ~ Raymond Carver

Today the ideas came faster than I could type them. I microwaved an entree and a random sentence flashed in my mind: "Grandma kept a jar of pickles in her purse." On the drive to Walgreen's, this: "On Jan. 11, 2004, the night before his disappearance, Spalding Gray saw Tim Burton's Big Fish, which ends with the line, 'A man tells a story over and over so many times he becomes the story.
In that way, he is immortal.'"
What kind of person carries that around in her head? The same kind of person who has memorized E. E. Cummings's beach-happy poem, "maggie and milly and molly and may" and has the verse at her disposal when she is, say, undergoing a medical procedure and needs some calming.
The same kind of person who knows that E.E. Cummings hated the non-capitalizing of his initials; it was his editor's idea.
The same kind of person who knows that E.E. stands for Edward Estlin.
If I didn't know better, I would say that I must be ovulating. I am most creative, most receptive to new ideas, when I am mid-cycle. Makes sense, if you ask me. It's a time of conception.
My ovaries are aging; they are not dependable. It is peri-menopause, then? Too much caffeine?
Regardless of inspiration, I got 1,500 words today on the page. Not as much as I would like, but more than I did yesterday.

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