Things are at sixes and sevens up here in writer’s camp. Painted the trim on the shack, mowed my lawns, limed the outhouse, started in on the stand of spruce down the bottom of the field, then got the crazy idea to paint the floor. This was a chore that has needed doing since the place was built. But I kept putting it off because of the uproar of moving everything around, living in the tent for a couple of days, not to mention doing the actual work of painting. But this time I went ahead and did it, throwing everything into chaos.
And the paint refused to dry! Even after a day and a half. And the ground was lumpy out in the tent. And it was cold at night. Wahh!
Then I resumed my war on the spruce trees. Got one all notched up and cut into the back of it, and just as she was about to go, a gust of wind came up and pushed it backwards, trapping my chain saw in the cut.
Nothing to do but take the saw apart while it was stuck in the leaning tree, and try to cut the bar and chain loose without killing myself. (Up here they call those kinds of hung-up trees “widowmakers.”)
Well, everything came right in the end.
Maybe the floor paint will dry by tomorrow. The main thing is, my book is coming along very nicely. What I love about all this chain sawing and weed whacking and paint can wrestling is that while I’m doing it I don’t have to think about the writing. I don’t have to think about the problems in the story that I’ll need to solve tomorrow. I concentrate on the physical labor at hand, and those problems just sort of perk through me, so that when I’m ready to start the next day’s writing, the problems seem to have resolved themselves.
Of course it doesn’t hurt that I’m doing all this in paradise.