I'm heading into an overbooked condition, as we say-- Newark Museum on Monday, new class at NYU on Tuesday (at the dread Norman Thomas Center in midtown....) followed by continuing class at NYU. then more teaching, including a new little-kid school and, I think a Jump Start Your Novel on Saturday followed by a run to and from WV to take my mom home. She's been doing any
chores I can give her-- went through the plants watering and trimming, and now she's working on my wrapping paper closet, organizing it pretty well, something it would have taken me months even to get to, especially now. Now meaning with the onset of heavy teaching.
Yesterday I finished a draft of Ten Strategies and got it in to Ed at Montemayor Press for first reactions. A pleasure to dash it off, and even these lesson plans from the Arts Catalyst Program at the Museum are fun, but they don't take me to the deep place that the writing of stories and novels does.
The deep place is something unnamable that we call the sources of creativity, or the unconscious or the muse or maybe even meditation. The nonfiction, especially this nonfiction about how to do something, is sunnier and closer to being with other people-- some of fiction writing is like that too, but it's a second or third stage, revision, not the Deep Place. I'm feeling good and productive, but I miss the deep place.
On the other hand-- during this productive gregarious period, I've been remembering more dreams at night....