I've been winging it all day. Flying by the seat of my pants, as it were. Very little has gone as planned, and unlike most days, I had a lot of planning done on how this day would go. I was supposed to do a casual open house on our condo that is coming open this weekend as the tenants move out. (Which is a huge shame, because I really liked these guys, who brought their check out to me on time, and who almost never asked for any effort expended on my part.) I had offered the open house to at least six different grad students who asked about the rental, but only one was already in town, ready to look. All of the others were out of state, planning to move later in the summer. This is not cool for me. I can't leave this place open for three months like I did last fall. I fell into a hole several thousand dollars deep last year, and I had only barely popped my head above the edge recently. But I thought I'd at least have a chance at securing one person walking through, maybe agreeing to rent it. I had to go to town early, driving my son in law to work, and I wasted time until the showing in a coffeehouse. I drove over fifteen minutes early, parked, and before I could get out of the car, I realized I had failed to bring the key to the condo. I high-tailed it back home to get a key, and on the way got a call from the interested party postponing the showing for the sake of a sick dog. So I just kept on going home, where I stayed.
We had talked about going to the Boulder Creek Fest today, but my daughter had to work, and XS and her friend went to the high school graduation to watch their friends walk. The sun was unreasonably bright, and downtown Boulder was stupidly crowded. I was thrilled not to have to go back and fight a crowd in the heat.
My intention had been to pull out some of the stories I started writing over the last couple years, and attack them anew, with outlines and story boards and a detailed plan of action. I found the first story that I have had on my mind for weeks now, the one I promised myself would be the prize for getting through the overwhelmingly busy quarter I just completed, and I opened a couple of packs of sticky notes of varying sizes, ready to start the story board. I wrote out one character's pages, and everything went sideways from there. For my character I had used the name of one of my old language arts teachers from middle school, and I let myself get distracted googling her to see whether I could find her picture online (found her name repeatedly, but no photos yet). The house was too quiet while I worked, so I started playing more podcasts on how to write quickly. The net effect was to slow me down, and then to send me off on a whole new tangent.
Listening to the podcast, produced by three authors who frequently work collaboratively, one author jokingly combined the names of the other two to describe the works they do togther. In a flash, that name crystalized in my head in an entirely different context and spelling, not as a bro-ship of two male authors, but as a girl. In a nanosecond, I saw her face, her build, her family, her conflict, but not her journey. I quickly scribbled down the basics on a sticky note, and tried to go back to the work I had barely begun on the older story. But I couldn't stop thinking about the girl. I went to sit in the hot tub and drink a glass of wine, still listening to the short episodes of this podcast. One of the five minute episodes was on how much fun it was to write a serial killer. That's when my beleaguered girl asked to become an anti-hero. I have miles to go before I can tell her story properly, but this girl desperately wants me to start. I think I'll be sleeping with a pack of sticky notes and a pencil next to me on the bed.
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