I like titles. They pretty much give one permission to write about things that may not necessarily be connected. My life has disparate entities, so titles, like the one above, are life savers. Imagine if there were no titles. It would be like a world without numbers. We’d all be more blind than we already are.

First thing this morning, I disappeared into my cabin. I had not been able to stop thinking about what I needed to do. I didn’t end up doing what I’d been thinking about, but no matter – my work time is my own, and though I don’t get paid much for what I do, I am grateful to have autonomy.

I was going to start in on organizing my two shelves of published works, and check and see what I hadn’t made note of in my vitae. But I ended up getting a wild hair up my butt and instead began to sort out the innumerable drafts of Headwinds, into chapters. I soon found myself growing impatient for I realized that organizing the numerous piles into drafts would take me several weeks. So I did an about face and began putting the old chapter drafts into paper bags and cardboard boxes.

I saved a few complete drafts, a proposal, some maps, some reader comments, and some handwritten drafts. Tomorrow I will put them in their own folders.

Three butts

Tossing the drafts was about as difficult a thing that I’ve ever done as a writer. And I will never fully believe that this was the right thing to do. It would have been advantageous to see the progression of thought in the various chapters, but this was not meant to be.

I also became discouraged in thinking about what this says about my composing progress. I did an okay job copy editing but seemed to have a difficult time with the big picture organization. I of course hope that I’ll be able to see things anew when I take a look at the next draft, which is on Pete’s computer.

It also was sobering to realize that I put so much time into this book and nothing became of it. Well, I will give it one more shot, that is after I finish more recent book-length works.

I have enough work on hand to keep myself busy for another thirty years. And undoubtedly, I won’t live another thirty years. I have my fingers crossed that my biographer picks up the slack and gets what’s left published for me.

And so now the drafts are sitting in bags and boxes, on chairs outside my cabin. Soon they will go to the recycling center. Maybe someone will find a bag, pull forth the contents, and begin reading. You just never know.

Sarah came over in the afternoon and we first went riding on our trails (Pete, Hrimmi, me, Tyra). Then we returned and I swapped out Tyra for Raudi. Sarah and I then rode to Grizzly Camp. Right now, Raudi is grass obsessed.

I have to go back because some individuals left a lot of beer cans there.

There. I wrote about riding and writing. I squashed in the riding part. At least I stayed true to my title.

Next: 140. 5/20/20: The Riding Life: The Power of the Pause