Distraction? Anyone?
The fire crackles in the stove, my dog lays curled in the gap in the couch that I haven't taken up, my dad lays asleep on the opposite couch. Music plays as my hands dance across the keyboard. For a number of minutes I had hoped for a distraction, I don't want to write. Will no one interrupt me? It is the day after Thanksgiving and I have sorted through my chapters, edited a number of them, argued with myself about not bothering to find a specific fact at time of writing, so that now I must go back and dig. Argued with myself about having the chapters all separate so the EndNote documentation of sources needs to be cleaned up for the final version. But now I am working on the last of my official chapters. Oh sure, I may add one small one on this or that, but this is the official last one. Illness. That's what I've loosely named it.
I pick up the "outline"--quotes collected from friends and documents. "I guess I didn't realize this until Trina died, and I went to a sort of informal memorial service at her house, and the house was filled with people that I didn't know--all kinds of people, old young, local people, artists and it was amazing that Trina had such a huge network of people who loved her..." "And Trina was going through some very serious eye problems, her glasses would get, got thicker and thicker, and somewhere along the line she had a very serious eye operation, and she didn't tell any of her artist friends, because she didn't want anyone to be scared for her or for themselves so because that's kind of scary for an artist, your eyes and your hands..."
Heavy stuff. Quote after quote. Sad stuff. Sad to think of her only being 47 when her younger sister died. Sad to think she had many days where the cancer taunted her, or traces of some greater health issue loomed. Sad to think of life having a conclusion when only 65 years old. Sad to hear the sadness of those who cared about her and their responses to her death.
This chapter isn't a fun one to write. Aye, but it wraps up the life of one spectacular woman.
I pick up the "outline"--quotes collected from friends and documents. "I guess I didn't realize this until Trina died, and I went to a sort of informal memorial service at her house, and the house was filled with people that I didn't know--all kinds of people, old young, local people, artists and it was amazing that Trina had such a huge network of people who loved her..." "And Trina was going through some very serious eye problems, her glasses would get, got thicker and thicker, and somewhere along the line she had a very serious eye operation, and she didn't tell any of her artist friends, because she didn't want anyone to be scared for her or for themselves so because that's kind of scary for an artist, your eyes and your hands..."
Heavy stuff. Quote after quote. Sad stuff. Sad to think of her only being 47 when her younger sister died. Sad to think she had many days where the cancer taunted her, or traces of some greater health issue loomed. Sad to think of life having a conclusion when only 65 years old. Sad to hear the sadness of those who cared about her and their responses to her death.
This chapter isn't a fun one to write. Aye, but it wraps up the life of one spectacular woman.
posted by Molly | 9:44 AM
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