Alone for a day, with time to think and daydream. Some of it was about how I work best, and the realization that it depends on what the work is. For stitching it's relaxed quiet with daylight and tea. I love the slowness, the feeling of the thread sliding through the cloth, the surprise of a star's shape when the fifth point is pulled taut, and the wondering of how it all might go.
Back when I used to write plays for school, it was always at the last minute, late in the evening, with Star Trek episodes playing in the background, and a glass of wine. In the early years there was a panic of getting it done in time, and the worry of what if nothing came and the students were let down? Over time I learned that it was just how my process went, something always happened, usually in a flood of ideas and dialogue, and the rhythm of the ride became fun.
The scribblings over the last year or so have been more personal, for a class and a few submissions. This kind is best done in silence (as much as can be managed in this little house without enough doors.) The other day I came home determined to finish something, sat down on the couch, volleyed K.'s and Moon's attempts at conversations, and focused. When it was finished, it was four hours later. I had no idea. It felt like one, or maybe two tops. Working and wrangling the words over and over is hard and great, but it's so good when it flows, and I'm remembering how much love it.
Today there was daylight and tea, some thinking, and lots and lots of daydreaming.
