After the initial turbulence of a new semester's schedule, we're nearly at cruising altitude. The novel now has an official a seat of its own, isn't walking the aisles in hopes of squeezing between the bulky masses of work, kids and sleep.
It's sleep that doesn't have much a place. If I don't want to be away from home three evenings a week, I'll have to take one of those evenings, the writing one, and turn it into an early morning. Or something.
So maybe the novel's place isn't that secure. And maybe they're not coming around with the drinks quite yet. There may still be periodic turbulence, when the stacks of papers start coming in, and time to write the novel will disappear, like the 13 roasted peanuts inside the little foil bag.
The only way the novel will get priority is if I'm willing to give up sleep, go to bed early knowing that a thermos of coffee is ready on the counter for my 5 AM wake up. If I can do that once a week, the manuscript will continue to grow.
The good news: it's still coming. 10 pages last session. More notes made as kids played in the sand at the park. I could be worrying about content, not scheduling. That's a good thing.
This week in the paper an article heralded the much anticipated arrival of the Queen Mary to our shore, with a photo of the captain of the vessel. He looked intensely worried, and between the lines of stats about the size of the ship, I realized why: the boat had only a 30 minute window in which to slip beneath the golden span of our fair bridge, just 30 minutes to get that big ass boat into port.
Timing is everything.
He made it. According to early estimates, one million people came out to see the boat pass through the gate. One million. I'm happy for him. He's my new role model-- big project+ tight schedule=no problem.
Now off to bed.