Two Years Ago

Since I've finished a draft of the novel, one of the things I've been doing is going through my big, messy pile of file folders. The whole book was written first by hand, and most of the notes on structure, process and research still exist only on sheets from yellow legal pads. Mixed in with all of that -- in folders called, "Scene," or "Working" or "Just One Next Thing" or "Hold/Done" -- are copies of scholarly articles or 18th century letters that I've transcribed by hand. I've been going through and putting the research that I might need to refer to again later in more clearly identified folders.

I find this meditative and pleasurable. It's also a wild process, full of encounters with my thinking from three and four years ago. In addition, I found last month's gas and electric bills in stamped envelopes with checks ready to go out and also train ticket stubs from a trip to Philadelpia in 2005.

One thing I ran across was a bit of rough writing from my morning files from December 20, 2004, about being afraid to go on with the novel in a serious way. It's over the top -- complete with wheedling, endearments and big promises to some of my characters -- and a bit embarrassing. I might only leave it up briefly, but, in honor of finishing the draft:

( here it is )