This is pretty much what journals are all about, at least to me. I knew as I wrote them that even though they provided an excellent place for brain (and heart, and psyche) dump, they were mainly a map of me. Colleen Wainwright, communicatrix, 03-23-2006
What is a communicatrix? Colleen Wainright is one--according to her. Apparently she coined the term (go ahead, Google her. I'll wait).
If a communicatrix is a woman who communicates (wildly?desperately?dangerously?) then what does that make a man who writes compulsively and has taken up writing on his bar/liquor bench? A communicaholic? I suppose. Close enough. But I really hardly ever touch the hard stuff anymore. I got too old for that. But, as I mentioned in my last blog, I did brake the hinge on my laptop and can't write anymore with it on my lap sitting snugly in my recliner in my man cave/study. I found that it props up nicely right here, against the distilled spirits. There's got to be something meaningful there for a writer. Besides, it's a wonderful sunny room and with all this spring stuff going on, it's a pleasure to be out of the dark.
And I think I'm on to something. This morning, I was up early, had my Zone Bar and decaf for breakfast, watched the news, and then sat down at the bar and got to work. The picture above is what it looks like here, right now, as I write this and as I wrote for three hours this morning. The exciting this is that I had great luck. The stuff was flowing, the scenes developing essentially on their own, the words pouring forth. Today I hit 194 pages, more or less, considering the stuff I'm cutting out. I see the end and better yet, I see the wonderful road that leads to that end: the denoument, the climax. Good for this communicaholoic.
The nice thing about writing is that by 12:00 Noon, I'm done for the day. Now to get into some work clothes and go and get a load of top soil for the back yard. Gotta get it ready for some grass seed. Perennial rye, I think it is.