It's Saturday morning. I'm sitting at the keyboard and scrolling down the working document. Chapter twenty-three...Chapter twenty-four. Reading for flow. I've already made one tiny revision. Added that comma, then took it back out. I might have to put it back in.
Concentrating on the work at hand--finishing Chapter twenty-seven today--is a battle I engage in almost every time I take a seat, fire up iTunes, check the mail, then open my working draft. I want to do anything but create new scenes, lay down new words. Move.
Anyway, Gershwin is playing this morning. An American in Paris right now. I have always written with music in the background. I have this personal theory that "what we eat, we are." An American in Paris is exploding with energy, and I believe some of that wonderful fire will find its way through my subconscious, out through my fingertips--onto the page. For some strange reason I always envision Broadway in New York instead of Paris, where Gerswin traveled to meet Ravel in the mid-twenties. Ravel was...
I MUST get back to Twenty-seven and finish it. It's just discipline. Inspiration has nothing, or very little, to do with writing. A couple more pages and...it's precision. I must keep moving.