The Session blog post generated just enough commentary (mostly off-site: Twitter, Facebook) to noggle my brain a bit. Mostly people have pointed out flaws in the reasoning or suggested ways to think about possible "documents." And it's been helpful.
But, sigh. As I keep telling people: I don't want to write that book. Yes, it's the book I assumed I'd start writing as soon as the meat book went to press. Alas --- or, frankly, not --- life intervened. As did, in my opinion, common sense. Namely: I don't wanna write a book.
Or at least that's my opinion now, 10:21 am, January 4, 2015. It may change.
And I say that because over the past four, five months, I've rested my brain. And my brain is so much happier now. Holy crap, but I'd been abusing my brain. It. Wanted. A. Break.
And now . . . said rested brain is dishing up an array of enticing amuse bouche. Oh, people, my little brain is so busy right now. And I, the sidekick who just waits for orders and then acts, am sucking all of it up and in.
Because, yes!, I have A Plan! More exclamation marks!
Remember my lamention of several weeks ago? (No? Really? You don't hang on my every. fucking. word?)
Well, people, that was then. The Plan is now. And The Plan is that I'm writing short essays that I will publish myself. I've research the how-to-do-that part of deal (in part by quizzing those who've already dived in, especially Evan Rail). And the ideas are flowing.
The sub-plan is that I'll publish three essays more or less at the same time. But I won't let those go until I've got at least a fourth lined up and ready to write/research.
But these are shorts, folks. Essays. Not books.
And that, dear reader, constituted a significant hurdle along the lines of "Oh, hell. I'm not sure I can do this." Because they wouldn't be books, right? I know how to write books. But essays? Writing short is magnitudes more difficult than writing long (eg, a book). In my opinion.
But by god, during its excursion into relaxation, my brain both wrapped itself around the idea of "short" and hammered out a way conceive of and structure "shorts. And -- BONUS -- bytheway it also delivered a truckload of ideas for those shorts. Or e-ssays. Or e-says. I'm still working on the terminology.
And all it took was a wolloping dose of jigsaw puzzle, an absurd amount of time sitting outside staring at the sky, long walks, way more sleep than I'm used to, etc.
(And yes, people, I'm aware of my privileged status: My options included a sabbatical. Well aware. The guilt gnaws daily. The Husband, a philosopher by trade, assures me that Walter Kaufmann has an excellent argument for why I ought not indulge in my guilt.)
The brain has not, however, said "Oh, honey . . . c'mon. Let's write another book. C'monnn . . . ."
But that could change. I mean, jeez, if you'd told me just three months ago that a) I'd have a new plan; and b) I'd have worked out many of the details of that plan, well, I'dve said "Honey, you need another joint. Here, sit down. Let me take care of that for you."
So it's possible that, in, I dunno, a year? or whatever? my brain may say, "Maureenie, let's write that damn book! Let's do this, sister, before we're too old."
Meantime, I'll take the short road . . . .