I gave up on sleep pretty early on last night (even watching a subtitled crime series in Icelandic didn't make me drowsy) and did some work instead. I got some glitches on this blog sorted out, streamlined my new posting process, and set up a bum-load of draft posts that just need "the words part" so I can hit the "publish" button.
Now you know my secret: I don't actually blog, I write.
(I would say something cynical about Blogger and their messing with my process, thus forcing me to come up with a new process, but that wouldn't be classy since I'm using their free platform.)
It's so quiet here that I find myself tiptoeing around even when Craig's not sleeping, and I have to remind myself to raise my voice a bit if I expect him to hear and understand me (especially when he's using earbuds to drown me out).
BTY, why is it called "tiptoeing" when you don't actually walk on your toes (that would be "en pointe")? Just wondering.
One of the things that lends The Little House to creative work is the lack of a functioning clock. There are two beautiful clocks, but neither of them are running. There are clocks on the stove and the coffee pot, but they both refuse to give me the correct time. It's not that I'm not aware of the time--it's displayed on every device I work on--but somehow when there's a clock prominently, incessantly, and even mutely announcing the time, my eyes automatically wander over to it more frequently than I care to admit.
|One of the timeless clocks.|
The lake and kayak were calling me after I'd been up for a bit, and I was seriously contemplating enjoying some on-the-water solitude. But I sent them both to voicemail when this happened:
I did some more work instead, with my "office" window open of course.
|My totally chill work space.|
I have to tip my hat to the designer and builder of this little gem of a cabin (Billy and his dad) for including a generous overhang on the roof. No matter where you are, you can open a window and not worry about the rain coming in (unless there are gale-force winds, in which case you really don't want the windows open anyway).
Although we got started a bit later than I intended (easy to do when you're up half the night writing), we spent the afternoon working. I'd gotten the manuscript draft 95% completed yesterday and we decided to do a read-through. Craig was on his laptop at the breakfast counter reading aloud, and I was in my totally chill work space making corrections and notes as we went.
Reading aloud is a technique used by editors to check for flow and awkward phrasing (and other highly technical stuff that might confuse the average mortal), but I'd never considered having the author read their own manuscript. Craig intends to make an audiobook of the finished manuscript in addition to the e-book and paperback, so the benefits of the read-aloud are twofold (or threefold). Four eyes and ears are better than two. Since we both wear glasses, I guess that's eight eyes and four ears.
At home, Craig's process involves taping pages to the wall in the living room and/or kitchen. I'm not entirely sure how that works, but he brought his particular brand of mojo along with him to the cabin. (Don't worry, he uses painter's tape so the wall surface isn't marred.)
|Craig's process, plus a map of the Appalachian Trail|
Here are a few more details of The Little House before I move on. Billy's father was a master of marquetry, and there are about a dozen of his masterpieces prominently scattered around the cabin. And not just on the walls (more on that later), so you have to keep your eyes peeled to find them all.
|Marquetry: elaborate wood inlay to create a pattern.|
I particularly love the simplicity of this arrangement and the statement it makes. It makes one wonder if these tools were used to build this cabin.
|Tools of the trade.|
We're still getting rain on and off, so we're mostly staying inside the cabin. Ahhh...the sacrifices we make for our craft. ;)
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