Tomorrow, then….Tomorrow
I learned the value of caution, suffering pain, and fear.
London, once grand and high, has been replaced by cheap and trashy. In certain quarters, it looks like an enormous Coney Island, with accordion music, carnivals, merry-go-rounds, and Ferris wheels.
Holding a bottle of hard liquor would make it so much fun.
I cannot tell you what I will do today or where I will go. Of course, I will go somewhere to write. I have a novel half-finished. It is not a book as much as the skeleton of a book, but for the first time in a year, the skeleton is all there.
I must take on an enormous amount of revision, weaving together, and shaping, but I have a book now so that nothing, not even my despair, can take it from me.
I cannot sit around wondering where my talent went, if indeed talent it can be called. I am confident it will return tomorrow or in a few days.
There is no answer and no ocean to look upon. How did I come inland? Tomorrow is already tomorrow, and I don’t have a chocolate egg on Easter Monday.
Love cannot be said too loudly, too often, or written too many times.
As for the books, I have compelled myself to give at least four or five hours to writing each day. My composition feels confusing and broken, and structurally, it needs more form and unity. A problem that shows itself wholly in the writing of my letters.
Now, I’m faced with another fundamental problem, which every writer must meet squarely if he or she is to continue. How does a writer get his writing done, and how often does it happen?
Tomorrow, then…tomorrow
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Please visit and read: The Doctor — Joanie Adams
Before I return to comment on The Doctor — Joanie Adams post, will you read and dare provide me with your thoughts? Really, who will dare help me with this?
More from Harry:
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(No offense will be taken if you dislike being tagged for various reasons. Please let me know, and I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen on my posts again. If, on the other hand, you’d grace me by allowing a tag, I’d be thrilled to add you.
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