I find it hard to believe that there are only twelve rest stops on west bound Interstate 10 from the intersection of I-1o and I-75 in Florida and Houston. It's a good thing, though. I want to tell a story in X parts, according to the number of rest stops, and twelve will be easy to do. Easier than what I was thinking. My rough guesstimation of the number of rest stops was four-hundred and seventy-eight. It was a random number. I wasn't trying to be right, I just picked a random number. Twelve is a random number as well, perhaps not as random as four-hundred and seventy-eight, but random enough. Random enough for the purposes of my story. And it's not just any story, it's the story that takes place in chapter seven. Randy drives across Interstate 10 from the intersection of I-10 and I-75 to Houston, and he manages to stop at every rest area, and he remembers sexual experiences in New York City, is reminded by the men he sees at the rest stops, some because of their physical appearance, some because of what they are doing, some because of the appearance of the room, some just because he's looking for what might be there, looking to make something happen. I'm not sure exactly what all happens in the various rest area rest rooms, I only know that something happens (real or imagined) in the first one he stops at and he quickly becomes obsessed with stopping at every one of them. Maybe he even thinks he's missed one along the way and drives a long way back looking for the one he missed, and stops at the east bound side of the interstate, which makes for a nice number (thirteen) of rest areas he visits.I've been thinking a lot lately about what I'm going to write but not actually writing. People have been asking me how the writing's going and I either say fine, which is true, or I say I've been thinking more than writing lately, which is also true, though not truer. I am on the verge of frustration about not writing but I don't really feel frustrated with the writing, or lack of it. I know this is part of the process. It's definitely part of the process for me. Some people would say it's important to work on the project at least a little bit every day, but I disagree with that concept. I think forcing myself to write when I'm not ready, not actually where I need to be to write, could be more harmful to the process. I do write something almost every day. I am getting a pretty steady writing workout in my life. So I don't really feel like I'm ignoring the novel. I sometimes think I am, but I don't really think I am.
So that's where I am. Today I organized the nest of power cords and other cords behind my desk. It was a big mess. That always drives me crazy. I feel more organized and ready to write now that I've done that. I coiled the cords and tied them with yarn. Some of them I duct taped to the backs of the legs of my desk. (I know this probably isn't a very interesting read, but it's what is coming out.) I wasn't ready to write after I did that so I organized the junk hardware drawer in the kitchen, then I filled a cardboard canister with dirt and played with the compost for a long time. My hands were black and stank; I saw maggots or some kind of maggoty worms in the tumbling composter. That was exciting. Then I swept the middle room and my bedroom. Then I tried but failed at figuring out how to hang the mosquito net we got at a thrift store yesterday on the front porch. And somewhere in there I had two showers, juiced some veggies and made a fruit smoothie. Now I think I'll rehearse the keyboard, and later we're going to Hut's for two-for-one veggie burgers!
