Lately, every day begins the same: coffee from the shop around the corner, followed by a quick foraging trip through The New Yorker. I am in search of new words. I am sick of “creamy,” “golden,” and even “goaty.” As of today, I am one month away from finishing a cheese book. Deadline: July 1.
As the date looms, I find myself tucking my legs under and curling more deeply into the cave. My days are full of paper scraps, phone calls, books scattered on the floor, lists taped to the wall. But mostly, I am compiling synonyms, images, and colors.
I feel like the mouse in the bedtime story Frederick, a book I loved as an itty-bitty person. Frederick hoards images instead of grain for winter so that when he hibernates, he’ll have fantastic pictures dancing in his head. His “chatty family of field mice” calls him crazy, but Frederick knows the importance of…well, a creative life.
So I am starting here, with my hoard of words, as a way of chronicling the next month of intense writing. Every day, a photograph. Every day, a little check-in. Every day, a quick spark of connection with this blog I have distanced myself from. Here is this morning’s handful of seed: hypnotic, blonde ochre, ferocity.