Woke up to six inches of snow on the ground. I did not go out and tend to the horses because I again hurt my back. At least at first it was my back. The problem again seems to be related to my hip ball and socket. I knew I should not lift heavy items. What I did not know is that I should not lift anything at all.

So this is going to be the next challenge, finding others and watch them lift things for me. I don’t like this, but this is the way it has to be. I don’t want to be an invalid all my life. Invalid, defined, is someone who needs their physical needs tended to. Invalid, defined, is something that can’t be used like a meal ticket.

Bill sweeping the VCRS floor after sorting

I had two choices today. I could lie around and read. Or I could work on my book. I chose the latter. I sat at the kitchen table rather than at my writing desk because I could not stand at my writing desk. I worked for a few hours, then took some Ibuprofen, took a shower, and had Pete stretch out my legs. Then I was able to go back upstairs and resume working standing up.

I made headway on the past narrative portion of Shelf Life, an essay in which I write about having made the decision to start salvaging books. Here, I allude to the reason why, putting this in the context of my relationship with my father.

Now the problem solving part begins. I’m next going to write about an additional reason why I started to salvage books, putting this into the context of my relationship with my mother. As with Headwinds, I’m again attempting to write a split narrative. I hope that this works and I don’t have to give up on it.

I’ve decided, for now, to let my subconscious do the work. Now tomorrow I will resume writing, and hopefully my conscious will, in having taken the information from my subconscious, hand it to me.

Why is it that so many writers make writing look so easy? Here I am, dealing with hundreds of books a day, the majority of them well worth reading – and yet I can’t seem to emulate them. I do wonder, how is it that (for example) James Patterson and Nora Roberts are so prolific? They obviously do not spend days on end endlessly revising page after page after page.

I at times wish I had an astute reader who I could share early drafts with; that is, someone who might also do what my subconscious is doing. I sort of gave this a try today, by telling Pete that after my introduction, that my first few chapters are about my initial salvaging efforts at VCRS.

He got this very worried look on his face, then asked me (my words) if I had to mention VCRS at all. I was momentarily aghast because, of course, this is all where it began. I told him this and said that I wasn’t grinding an axe, just writing about what happened.

I’m for now just going to keep writing, keep writing, keep writing. If I give up now, it’s curtains.

Next: 353. 12/25/23: Quietude