We are expecting up to twelve inches of snow tonight and through the morning.  It's been dark since 4:30p and the snow just arrived blowing in sideways off the mountain.

It's been an interesting few days.  The writing has been going well.  I've hit a stride in my revisions and it feels good to see the progress.  I just wish it would have happened a bit sooner.  I can't say I didn't expect this delay or at least expected that I would discover along the way how I operated at a residency.  Residents who have been here a month say a similar thing.  It took time to get into a groove and then they were off.  Good to know.  Will prepare for this next time.  I thought two weeks would be plenty of time to get shit done, but there seems to be a mandatory adjustment period, no?  We're in new places and want to see new things, on a different meal schedule and in another time zone.  With 4:30p sunsets and stuffy noses, my residency has a half-life.  I'm looking forward to what the next week brings, how much work I can get done.  One thing is confirmed: I am a slow writer.  Even when I'm moving, I'm moving slow.  Just part of my formula, I guess.  A little odd because I typically move at light speed, multitasking and juggling like a mofo.  Makes me think about how little writing I actually get done when normal life is in the way.  Crazy.  Gotta work on that.  

I think my freak out earlier this week coincided with my trying to write through a difficult part in the chapter.  That part is still unfinished, but I've pushed through to the other side and am having fun with the next section.  Sometimes the words flow.  Sometimes they don't.  There isn't much to be done except keep going.  It's got me wondering how other writers work through the hard parts.  Further investigation to come.
 
Took my own advice and signed up to read on Tuesday night.  Will keep you posted.

Her mama takes such good care of her.  Miss my girls. 

And what about the work?

Maybe it is because I am not feeling well.  Maybe it is because the magic of this place is finally settling in and becoming my baseline.  Maybe it is because I am finding that rhythm I felt I had no time to find.  I dug in a little deeper today with my work.  That is to say, I starting freaking out.

I gave myself one goal while here: revise one chapter of my creative nonfiction novel.  I say "chapter" with some trepidation.  Before I left I confessed to my mentor/friend/colleague, Marilyn, that I was afraid what I thought would be one chapter of the book, was actually going to turn into one book.  If you aren't a writer you may not be able to fully grasp the gravity of this revision and thus will not be able to fully appreciate the gravity of my freak out.

Let me back up a bit.

This creative nonfiction novel was my thesis project.  It follows four generations of women on my mother's side.  Like most of my work, it is fiction based on autobiographical events.  Sometimes leaning more towards fiction.  Sometimes leaning more towards fact.  Writing in the space where fact and fiction overlap is my shit.

For various reasons, Cleofas is the "chapter" I hoped to revise while in Vermont, mainly because she is one of my favorite characters.  I can't get her story out of my head.  I hadn't read her chapter, quite honestly, in about two years.  When I did, it felt like an outline--there was so much more story to tell.

My great-grandmother, Cliofas, and her husband Jose.

So here I am.  Writing the gaps.  Feeling completely overwhelmed by the scope of her story.  I already see further revisions down the road that I can't even begin to think about now.  (I am not fully committed to the idea that Cleofas is her own book, but it is clunking around in the back of my head.)  It is historical so I find myself getting lost in research.  It is personal so I find myself texting my mother for more information and needing to do her character justice at every turn.  It is emotional so it all weighs heavy on my heart. 

Then I remind myself to breathe.  One sentence at a time, Candy. 

I'm describing my freak out to my friends over dinner.  Yet another gift of a residency: being able to discuss your artistic freakouts to people who understand and actually give a shit, who will sit and talk it out with you until you've hit some emotional core or just can't talk about it anymore.  Thankfully, mercifully, my companions are experiencing a version of the same over their own projects.  One says, "Well, as an outsider her story sounds beautiful, but I understand you have to give birth to it."  Another says, after admitting to her spouse that she too was freaking out, "My partner said, you don't know where these two weeks will lead you, how it will influence your work later.  This is just as important as the work you complete while there."

I'll go to bed tonight holding on to that last thought.