Ode to an Attic

A week-long writing retreat upstate. I had the days to myself up in the attic! I could write a whole ode to the attic. This one is airy and there are pine trees that rustle in front of the windows. I spend a lot of time watching the trees. Wind rush. Shiver of birds. Frantic hop, majestic hop, preening hop of red robins.

So much of writing, of making the writing, is time and space. I had both to pursue this next round of revisions. Got my footing, I think. Watching trees was very good for it.

Last night I read Mavis Gallant’s “The Hunger Diaries” in an old New Yorker. I identified. Are there other ways to do a writing apprenticeship? Besides hunger and fear. Fear of dropping into the book, the totality of it. But then there you are! And it’s delicious.

This novel is becoming lighter but somehow more serious. Feels like I am removing some old rigging, so it can stand—float?—on its own. Removing the scaffolding.