One Sentence After the Other
After reworking the same sentence for half an hour last night, I went to bed feeling burnt out. I didn't know if I'd get back to work on the memoir at all today.
When I sat down to write this morning, I realized that the sentence was entirely too complex. So I mapped out what I wanted to accomplish: to describe Mom's house with this subtle illusion to myself as some suburban pest—a raccoon or a possum, showing up to scavenge. And it was fun. To write playfully, without obsessively affixing one sentence to another, without insisting that each sentence was beautiful and rhythmic and had strong verbs.
Tomorrow I must, must, must make the phone call to inquire about Grandma's health records. It might even be fun to film it. I want to tell the true story of what it's like to track down these records. The tedium of it, but also the occasional unexpected connections. The hope in it all.