The title of this post may be misleading if you, like me, only think of ‘wallow’ as a negative word. For some reason I’ve started associating wallowing with sadness or guilt or self pity, which is silly. I mean, does this guy look sad?
This week I’ve been wallowing, but not in mud or grass, but in the Sea Story. I’ve taken a week off between revisions and all I’ve been doing (other than working, going to the beach, walking the dog, going to the movies etc etc) is dreaming about my new story. It’s awesome because I know I don’t have to start writing it tomorrow, and even if I did most of the bones are already in place, so I can just think about all the things I love about it and dream and think and wallow. Ah, story. I love to wallow in you.
I’ve been thinking about dark water and grey skies, red beads and big beards, sailor’s funerals and oral histories, ballroom dancing and sailboats, stubborn girls and aloof boys. I’ve been dreaming of a little island in the Pacific Northwest, all of my own creation, but full of the perfect little details I picked up in all the small towns I traveled through when we visited the area.
What could be so sweet as this, to have the time and inclination to wallow in a story that exists only in my head, a story not yet written, and therefore without the necessary imperfections of drafting.