Morning Pages, Tuesday

Morning pages. Tuesday. Rain agian again, which the cat considers a personal insult. Rules for this week: three pages before coffee, no going back, no reading what I wrote yesterday. Draft Mode on. If I make a mistake I strike it outou out and keep moving. It looks terrible. It feels wonderful. Things on my mind, in no order. The chapter with the fire flood in it, which is still a fire in my head. Mum's birthday on Friday (card, not flowers, she says flowers make her feel like an invalid). Whether the woman in chapter four is lying or to the reader or only to herself. Tomatoes. I keep wanting to fix the sentence above. I am not going to fix the sentence above. What I actually want to write today: the scene where they find the boat. I have been circling it for a week because because I know it is the heart of the book and I am afraid of getting it wrong. Getting it wrong is what drafts are for. Write it badly today. Write it well in March. Rain heavier now. The gutter is making a sound like applause someone pouring tea from a great height. Page two. I notice that when I can't delete anything I stop trying to sound clever. The words come out plainer and true truer. Maybe that is the whole trick: not to make writing easier, but to make eras erasing harder. Coffee soon. One more page.