It's Thursday, right?
I'm just checking. As a writer working at home, I'm never quite sure of the day, date, year.
Just so you'll know--I'm not quite as normal as I look, but then, who is?
I love all things "woo," for instance. Partly, because I love surprises and shivers, but mostly because I'm fascinated by consciousness, including "un," "sub," "trans," and any other.
I pay attention to my dreams, and for quite practical reasons. One of them saved my life. Another one stopped me from working for crooks. Then there was the one that freed me from the most paralyzing writer's block I ever had.
I also use any technique I can find to discover what's going on beneath my own surface. In that regard, my favorite tool is the I Ching, Ye Olde Chinese Book of Changes. It's known as an oracle, but I rarely use it to predict the future. I used to, but eventually it balked and refused to co-operate, seeming to suggest that such a use was, ultimately, beneath its dignity and mine. So I use it sometimes, not to ask what will happen, but to ask what lesson I can learn, to ask for guidance, even to get hints about my plots and characters. I think that what I actually find out from it is what I'm really thinking way down deep.
So. . .this morning I used the I Ching in the link to the right to ask if there was anything the sages would like to remind me of today.
Here's what it said:
If one does not count on the harvest while plowing,
Nor on the use of the ground while clearing it,
It furthers one to undertake something.
And here's why that meant something to me. . .I've been so stuck at the midway point in my book. So stuck. And the main reason is that I've been intimidated by the success of my last book. Everybody says it's the best thing I've done. As it happens, I agree with them. :) So now what? How can I do better than my best? The I Ching reminds me to stop worrying about the "harvest." Just plow, dammit, plow. Don't even think about anybody ever reading it, much less paying me for it, or giving me awards for it, or whatever form a harvest might take. Just write. Just plow.
In a comment this morning, jen said, "I seriously doubt I'll ever publish any of my novels; I just write because I love how it feels."
I'd like to think she's wrong about that never publishing thing, but the point here is that she's not counting on a harvest. She's just plowing, maybe because she loves the sun on her hands and the sweat on her back and the look of the furrow.
I think I'll go have me a plowman's lunch, and then get back out into the fields.