I've been writing every second day over this weekend, as it felt like I was just beginning to break through the ice and getting to the meat of the story at the end of my shorter writing sessions. And I'm certainly not one to push myself past the words that are absolutely necessary after I have already put in a long day of work at the school. Not at this stage anyway. Still getting to know the storyline, the characters, still meandering and rambling, and I am okay with that. Rambling means more words.
Tonight I hit 20,000 words in the novel draft. So far the words still come with ease, like cutting through butter that has been sitting out on the counter all day, but I also let them come out sloppy and disorganized and misspelled. Sitting down and getting started is the more difficult part, although I have a little evening routine--stoke up the fire, kettle on for tea, some chocolate. My life here is full, and so I have much to draw upon for inspiration, and the more I write about this life the more I realise how intriguing it really is to be living here like this, as a member of this small community. I consider how much we really know about each other, or think we know. And in that I am starting to find a voice, full and strong, that seems to scribe out the nuances in the lives of others. I'm not sure if I am writing for an audience someday or if I'm doing this just for myself; what I do know is that I am having a wonderful time humming along in the writing of it.
It is writing about me, yes, but also not, as there is much imaginative elaboration in the words. In the end only I will know which parts are true and which parts are embellished and added to, or are changed just enough to push them off the fence and into the lair of fiction.
This weekend I have spent a lot of time walking with Sanford, splitting wood, playing the guitar and painting. It is finally winter outside, at -10 in the morning and warming to just below freezing in the afternoons. Sunny, and the air is pregnant with the crisp smell of snow.
Today there was a Remembrance Day ceremony at the local Gold Bridge Cemetery. A good dozen people turned out. Poems were read, names from the plaque to honour the fallen from this area were read. Some unfamiliar faces. It's always exciting to be meeting new people even after living here for more than a year.
I'm going hunting with a friend tomorrow. I have no idea how it will all sit with me, this killing and gutting of an animal still steaming with the breath of life. I feel that since I do eat meat I would rather be involved in the preparation of my own food, therefore pinning the consumption of it to a life that I have taken, rather than putting the responsibility for the death of my food out of my hands. Rather than purchasing a sterilized version of meat on a styrofoam tray wrapped in plastic, I want to remember that what I am eating was once a living, breathing animal rather than remaining blissfully unattached to this reality. And the animals slaughtered for purchase in stores live lives much more horrendous than one lived by a wild animal out grazing tonight on woodland plants. Perhaps this line of reasoning seems strange to some of you, but I want to be aware of where my food comes from, and want to learn how to get it myself, and if I want to eat meat I need to be okay with taking a life. Not that I am doing any shooting tomorrow. I'm just going along to observe and help in the gutting, if I am even able to. I suppose I will learn where my comfort levels are, and this is the whole point. I'm sure the experience will make me think twice about wasting any of the meat on my plate.
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