The Firebird Suite

sthelens3.jpgAs usual, this morning finds me procrastinating.

The novel, The Firebird Suite, is in a strange place. It is not quite where it should be, in my brain.

I know, I know — this seems crazy. But I can’t describe this in any way other than in a physical way. It feels as if the book isn’t where it needs to be, in my body.

When I’m working on something on a daily basis — as I have been with The Firebird Suite — it becomes a wonderful, enlivening obsession. I think about the text when I’m in the shower, when I’m at the grocery store, when I’m driving somewhere. It is a physical presence — with me in the sense that I can feel it, or nearly feel it. It seems somehow tactile.

So, basically, I’ve just told you I’m crazy. But — but — not really, since I can express this weird, obsessive, imaginary world in a way that other people find understandable and interesting. (I worry sometimes that this is really the only difference between writers and lunatics: Writers are able to articulate their madness in a coherent way.)

But now…

So — the book isn’t in the right place. And — in case you were wondering — it’s set outside of Mt. St. Helens. Hence the photograph. More later…

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