Showed a first draft of chapter one to Frank and Jill – lots of questions and comments. The hardest part of feedback on drafts is that you have to listen to commentary on things you know are problematic, but haven’t fixed yet (or don’t know how to fix), but you have to listen to it anyway as if their points are an act of discovery. No way around it – it’s part of what makes writing fun! Yay!
The truth I think is that when feedback about work hurts, something is being said that you know is true, but you (ok, I) haven’t dealt with yet. Or haven’t understood yet, or simply don’t want to deal with. The only thing I need is more persistence – as they say, rewriting is writing.
I have half a moleskin journal filled with my notes and observations from the London trip. I have 250 photos of my own, and several hundred of Frank’s. Since I returned I’ve been putting together the pieces and trying to put it together into a framework. We had several ideas for frameworks for the book that we talked about over English breakfasts at the Cherrytop cafe near Baker street – but none of them have worked for me so far.
As it stands I have nearly a dozen half starts at a first chapter, none of which work. The daily activity has been picking up threads of these half starts and either weaving them together to get further in, or finding start #13 or #14 and seeing how far I can go. The work is slow and there are no rewards yet.
In London – actually heading to Paris from London, currently in the Chunnel. Frank is across from me, Ipod in hand, reading mens health uk.
Even with all the time underground I feel like this trip, and this project, is about re-examining travel – paying attention to how everyone else pays attention to, or avoids their experience. Even now, on this fancy upscale train, most people are busy trying to avoid, at least in one sense, the experience of travel. They sleep, they read, they listen to ipods – something to escape the monotony of sitting and looking around. People trade glances, like a game of tag, except no one admits that they’re playing.
The windows, mostly useless in the chunnel, provide a writer like me with an extra sneaky way of watching other people. But search long enough in the reflections, and reflections of reflections, and eventually I find someone else – probably also searching – and we both look away. Whoops – found what we were looking for, but not that we’ll admit it.
Why is it so tempting to watch others when we know they won’t look back? It’s all natural, but somehow forbidden – can’t admit we’re watching. Can’t smile when we’re caught. Must pretend we are not human.
The plan is set – Spending 3 weeks in London doing research for the London underground book (as in the subway system, not the music scene, or some kind of underground political movement). Anne Kiel is letting Frank and I stay at her flat while we’re there. It’s a perfect no frills guerilla book project. Frank is on the photos, I’m on the writing.