06 Apr Singing on a Rock
I love the drawing of this horse: his alert ears, his eyes that ask questions.
I love these words: “On the breeze he heard a shrill song, it was a cricket, singing on a rock.”
Lately, all I do is listen. And write.
I hear the singing of crickets. Then write about the rocks.
Rock writing is difficult. I’m totally immersed in my next book: The Netherlands, my father-in-law and our difficult relationship, WWII, Nazi Germany, The Hunger Winter, euthanasia.
Yesterday, I typed a doctor’s name into the google search engine, his name, and the word ‘death.’ I wanted to find out when he’d died. Searching for his obituary.
And google served me up a meal. “Doctor Jack Kevorkian’s 1968 Volkswagon Van has sold to a reality TV Star.” Say what?
I rift off on the story. And study vans, and clinics, and T4, and Thanatron, and and and.
I go to sleep with these stories, and wake up with them, and pound out the words till my hands are tired. I’m writing one to three thousand words a day. Riding a freight train that I can’t stop. I’ve never written this way before. So fast and steady. It’s like this book NEEDS to be written NOW.
Okay. Okay. I’m doing the best I can. After eight hours in front of the computer my brain is mush.
So. That’s where I’m at. Tearing up the daisy chain. Hibernating from my friends. Eating Ramen. I won’t tell you about the state of my bathroom.
It’s a kind of scary place to be. So much vulnerability pouring out onto those white pages. So much darkness to embrace.
I spend my days circling and writing boulders.
And while I write, I listen for the singing. There is always singing.