Under the Lense

Worrying about forest fire during the up-coming dry season, when I’m not writing, I have been hacking at trees and brush near the house. Sherrie doesn’t supervise; she just worries - about little lives facing my machinery. Before my minions could destroy all the habitat, Sherrie wanted me to know where a certain bird nest is.

I have been thinking about her - that humming bird. I took a picture of her. That I could tell, when the monster stared at her from three feet away, she never flinched. Her nest is only 60” off the ground.

Right at the beginning of each day, I worry about the current novel - N3. I am in a long period of starting each writing session in abject fear that I won’t find my way through this vital story. How big is a hummingbird egg? 0.7 centimeters? Tops? How thick is an unfinished novel? 0.3 cm? Less than that. How thick is a decent paragraph? Hours sometimes.

The picture I took of that dinky, fragile bird sitting on its nest is the exact view a crow would have. That little bird is quite confident she has chosen a crow-proof spot for the nest. That little bird is so sure! That little bird is so unflinching! That little creature shows up every day. She never questions what she is doing. She knows what she is doing. Some days, I question everything I’ve written; others, I feel big as that little bird.

I have about 1,600 roughed-out words against the 2K I need for Chapter 24. Each chapter of N3, it’s just that way: how is this done? I don’t know how to do this.