So tonight, as I sit down to catch up on today's check-in for ROW80, I'm feeling just a tad blocked. This photo by Drew Coffman says it well.
Weds ROW80 check-in:
|Writers' Block I (Drew Coffman, Flickr)|
Writing/Critiquing/Research: Actually wrote 2x this week (very slow progress). Critiqued one writer's opening chapter and finished a book for an "honest" review. Writing a poem a day on my travel blog for October (not exactly 100%, but persevering); each poem was inspired by experiences and/or/pictures from travels in France.
Started reading Letitia Hargrave's Letters (1840s) on life in Upper Manitoba. Fascinating reading from an upper class woman with ascerbic observations of those around her.
Community/Other: Missed my weekly writing group. Sigh. Holding steady with sponsorship commitment to ROW80 by reading other posts.
Decluttered much of my e-mail, now down to an almost manageable 500 to read rather than a little over 3,000. How did I do this? By rigorously reviewing those writing newsletters that I didn't read -- and unsubscribing. Plus merrily deleting all the way back to April. Is there such a thing as an e-mail hoarder?
Went to the movies with my sweetie for the first time since January (Walking the Camino), a documentary about a 500 mile pilgrimage to Santiago, Spain. Yes, I'd love to go, but not sure if my knees would be up to such a hike. The doc gave hubby thumbs up with a 100% recovery from his back surgery. Yippee!
Snippet for Weds WIPpet: Here are 25 lines from this week's writing for Rivers of Stone (October = 10th month + the 15th day). Context: Poor Cat, still disguised as a boy, is stuck alone at York Factory in Hudson's Bay. It's winter, 1842, and Dougal will not return until spring.
Catriona threw up, her dinner of venison and fish spewing onto the snow. Dizzy, trembling, and wondering if she could ever eat again, she leaned against the wall of the mess hall and stared at the Clerk's house and the Chief Factor's house across the compound. How long had Dougal been gone? Two months? And no word. No letters, no messages.
"Took a bit too much fish, eh, Cat?" McKenzie loomed next to her. Too close.
Cat wiped her mouth and wished the sour taste would go away. She shook her head. "Creeping crud of some kind. Best stay away."
"Go on back to the Clerks’ House and report to the doc if it don't clear up by tomorrow," said McKenzie. "Yer me best clerk."
Catriona smiled weakly. "Thanks."
She started across the compound and thought of her bunk. If I can make it, she thought. Half way there, she crumpled in the snow.
"Bring him in here," called Mrs. Hargrave from her porch.
Cat was vaguely aware she had fainted and was now being carried somewhere warm.
"Put him in here, next to the stove. I'll take care of him." The noise abated, and Cat became aware of a warm cloth cleaning her face.
Cat swallowed, her mouth dry. I've got to get out of here. She struggled to sit up.
"Easy now. Feeling better?" Mrs. Hargrave leaned back on the stool next to the cot. "Just relax. You'll be fine. Most likely you ate something a little tainted, though 'tis so cold, I don't know how anything could spoil."
May you have a good week. Breathe! Write! Cherish the moment!