I just feel like writing tonight. I'm leaving Provincetown tomorrow after being here since last Wednesday. Our house (a house in ptown: unbelievable) got hooked up to the sewer today. It was a massive job: a bulldozer digging deep into the gravel road, four men digging down into my yard, I'd say 5 feet, laying plastic pipes like the toy tubes. By tomorrow the site of the old deck will be ready for the new (same) deck to be rebuilt there. It's been a week of required change and required spending.
I have been mostly alone. My friend Marilyn came by last Friday. Raul came by to fix the door. Hal Winard came by this morning for a deposit for the deck. The sewer guys have been great, but they are doing too much heavy labor to chit-chat.
Do you ever wonder not just what you do or would do when you're alone, but is what you do or don't do worthwhile? Healthy? Legitimate?
I am writing up a storm: I've probably written 30 new pages and I've improved another 10 or 15. I've also planted luscious yellow mums in the outside flower and window boxes. And I bought a replacement blind for the upstairs bathroom. This, in a week.
That's about it. I wonder about keeping too much to myself. Which is really to say I worry about being too sedentary. I don't take walks. I don't because I'm lazy and because my right hip kills when I walk. But also I didn't walk the one measly block to the ocean. I didn't see it, hear it, smell it, feel it.
Instead I wrote. I have no idea if I am a good, average, bad or some other kind of writer. Honestly, I don't know. I know my vocabulary is limited, and that affects how I write. But I like this family I'm writing about. Many writers say they don't care if they are published or not. That is so not me. I want to write a blockbuster book. I would like that a lot. :^)
That's all I want to say tonight. :^) I would be happy to hear how you're seeing your life and days lately.
(Never not care)