Plotting words: Still 10,684
Drafting words: Finally 2,071
Hello from the dining room table in my mom’s home, in the witching hours of the night. This feels fitting, somehow — of course the first words of this book are getting written at midnight. I named this blog The Owl Hours for a reason, after all.
I wanted to start writing sooner, but I had to go up to my storage locker in Canada today, and that’s four hours of driving right there. To say nothing of actually being at the storage locker, which… well.
Actually, let’s say something of the storage locker, shall we?
I have a bone to pick with storage lockers, and it’s not that they facilitate and normalize over-consumption — which is true, and problematic, but not the particular soap box I wish to stand on today.
No. My problem with storage lockers is that they become mausoleums for the lives we thought we’d live, and no one warns you. We think we’re just filling them with things, temporarily, for one reason or another, and then we’ll have space for the things in our lives later.
But then life changes, and you change with it, and suddenly there’s not space for the stuff — not because there’s no space in the cabinets, but because you’re a different person. And all that stuff carries weight: the weight of hopes and dreams and compromises and assumptions and disappointments.
Of course, the only reason why I’m talking about this is heartbreak. I filled this 5’x5′ storage locker two years ago, at the end of an eight-year relationship, and since then I’ve stood on this concrete floor, the metal rolling door pushed up, and come to terms with the life I thought I would live in that relationship over and over again. The cologne he bought at the little perfume shop I found in Seoul. The camping gear I’ve only ever used with him. The ikea cups I never really liked, but bought in a set of two, because they fit his Aeropress. And in what world would you need fewer than two cups?
I stared at a cooking pot for a really long time today. It’s a perfectly fine pot. Stainless steel. Nothing wrong with it. But it’s just one of heartbreak’s many idiosyncrasies that I vehemently don’t want to take it with me when I move to Seattle. I’d gone to the storage locker just to find the basics of what I’ll need for my move tomorrow: bedding, tools, vacuum, pans, plates, cups (turned out I kept some coffee mugs. I don’t own glasses, but this is a problem for another day).
Eventually I sat down on the floor and bargained with myself: I could find a way to get rid of the pot now, or I could find a way to get rid of the pot later, but I didn’t actually want to sit and go through every single thing I owned right that second. That would be time I could spend writing, and I didn’t want to give it over to the phantom of a life that was no longer mine.
Instead, I wanted my life right now, and the story I’m writing, and the apartment I’ll be picking up the keys for tomorrow. So I picked myself up off the floor, packed my car with the most important things, and left the storage facility. Someday soon, I’ll empty that locker for good.
* * *
After driving home, I had fourteen characters to name, including the two main characters. (Yes, I somehow felt that all of them needed to be named before writing the first scene. I actually needed eight of them, so… we weren’t too far off.) I did a lot of naming research yesterday, so I wasn’t starting from scratch, but it still took a solid hour and a half to get that done. I will say though: excellent way to not think about a relationship that I feel very ready to be done grieving, and it led to a highly entertaining text exchange when I asked my mom for her opinion on a few of the names.
And then! Finally! The first 2,000 words of this story got written. A blank page is so much scarier than a page with some words on it, and this story isn’t going to have a proper blank page again. A momentous occasion! Now, are they good words? Unclear. It’s been a while since I’ve tackled a story like this, and I can feel the rust in the gears, so to speak. But that only gets solved by writing more, so… onward.
I’m also thinking a lot about POV, since I went with first person, present tense, but I’m not wedded to it — and, indeed, am debating rewriting the scene in third/past, just to see how it feels. Nailing down the POV is important, but I also don’t want to waste time when I’ve already lost two days to plotting, so I’m of two minds about it. We shall see.
But this ship has finally been set to sea, and it feels good.
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