Wednesday, wednesday

This morning I didn’t want to write. Didn’t want to. Got up early enough, was warm enough, had time enough. Just had no will.

Here’s the thing, see. Writing is hard work in every sense except the physical thanks to this here computer. And I just wasn’t up for it first thing this morning. But tonight I have so much swimming in my head that I’ve got to get it out, get it down, so that I may sleep.

But I guess that’s Wednesdays for me.

Let’s go back to last night. After class I skipped out on dinner and drinks with friends in favor of work. Except work turned out to be idle. Which sometimes is the case with creative stuff. I have very little down time in my life because I’ve crammed it full of teaching and writing and reading and supervising and discussing. Good stuff. But to dig deep, discover and create, one must have idle time. Time to dream it all up. Again.

So I took some idle time last night. Made dinner, had a glass of wine, turned on the DVD “Red Eye” for some blue-eyed Cillian Murphy eye candy (I prefer his Tranny Kitten in Breakfast on Pluto), and my mind began to wander. I also had to pitch my screenplay idea in class today, so the pressure was on. Idleness+deadlines=productivity in my book. Then I started digging in the basement through photos and books and journals and came across lots of great stuff to work with. Realized that I already had a screenplay idea from years back. Then I found my very full and fabulous journal circa 1997 Dublin. I call it the dirty book. Manohmanohman did I have some good times y’all. Some horrific times and a lot of growth, too. And presto! Fodder (with a little tweaking and time manipulation) for a screenplay. . . .

Today I taught Annie Proulx’s short story “Brokeback Mountain” and several of my kids said they were crying by the end of it. Read it over and over. Because it was so beautiful. Read this story, people. Now I’m terribly curious about how it translates to screen, but I imagine quite well. There’s no internal dialogue; it’s all visual and action. Lots of showing, not telling—the good writing advice with which I beat my students over the head. And so cleanly written. I’m also fascinated that a woman captures men’s voices so well. This is rarely attempted, in my experience. But God is it a tender and painful love story. Busted apart all kinds of stereotypes for my suburban Michiganian students. By the end of class, they were comparing the story to Romeo and Juliet without prodding, God love them.

Fast Forward to tonight when I had my other class review a poetry reading. My friend Marie (remember the 80something poet I wrote a profile on, befriended, then visited up north where we drank lots of wine, looked at the stars and swam in Lake Michigan together?) did the reading and she was magnificent. Her vibrant, sensual life and nature propel her poetry and her presence. I cried when she read about losing her husband to Alzheimer’s. The emptiness, the aloneness. Even a full life doesn’t keep you warm at night. This I know. And so does Marie.

Okay, so I’m getting ready for sleep now. The head is a bit emptier, thanks. Tune in for the next installment tomorrow. . . . or is it today?