The Long Weekend
Friday morning it began to snow. The flakes were thick, like dandelion seeds, and the the sky was white as owl-down.
I don’t believe in Writer’s Block, it’s not real. Writer’s write. Still, not believing in it hasn’t stopped me from having it for about two months. I’ve been writing, yea, but the words have been bad. And stagnant. And deleted.
I told Cadence there were too many possibilities; and he reminded me, that artists love limitation.
Saturday was so perfect I have barely any recollection of it. It was a blinding white memory.
I awoke to a world of white sheets and castles. I sat in bed with a ink pen and moleskine notebook, and wrote down everything that was going to happen in the chapter I’m writing. Every god-damned and god-blessed thing I could ever want. And when I ran out of things that needed to happen? I laid there, waiting for the right ending to come to me.
And fuck-me, but it did.
That night, I turned that page of rune-like notes into a five page outline, and all was Good in the World.
Sunday morning, The now had finally stopped, and sunk the world into a foamy sea.
Sunday evening, I packed up our laptop and drove to the library. I put “Over the Border” playing on repeat, and wrote for something close to four hours. At the end of this time warped festival, I found myself ten pages into the best writing, and the best chapter, of my life.
The words were bricks, and the paragraphs were walls. And as I built them further, I walked along the top of my borderland.
It felt like I was there, in my story, experiencing it with my characters in a way I never could have imagined. I did not know that writing could be like this. I have watched my words play out like movies for so long, I did not know I could be there too.