Til The Morning Brings My Train.
I had an unusual start to the day: I slept in. That’s a relative thing in the middle of a pandemic when you’re retired, but I’m usually fairly regular in the time I get up. This morning I woke at 10.20. I have no idea why, but, if this isn’t too pretentious, I suspect it has a lot to do with all the time I spent editing yesterday. That involved both looking at each sentence but also looking at the shape of the stories. I enjoyed it, but it was still work.
Today has been more of the same but I’ve been focused on a single story that, on re-reading, needed substantial work. I think it’s a lot better now, but will still have another look at it in a couple of days. The main difference between now and when I wrote it is time. Since it was first written I have written a lot and am more comfortable with how I want sentences to look, for example, but the time also allowed me to look at the story now with an almost entirely objective eye, and wield the sword without a qualm.
I have not watched or seen the news at all today, and I’ve barely listened to any music except for a quick dip into the Grateful Dead at Barton Hall, Ithaca, 8 May 1977, a show so legendary that a soundboard recording is in the Library of Congress. If pushed, I’d say the next night in Buffalo was even better, but it’s barely worth arguing.
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Music : The story I’ve been working on, which originally sprung, in a very roundabout way from Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolfe, is largely set on the California Zephyr that ran from Chicago to Oakland. Naturally there are creatures of unspeakable evil to be encountered and defeated en route. With that in mind, here’s an old favourite from my earliest days of listening to pop music. The Monkees : Last Train to Clarksville.
As a special bonus, Carole King’s original demo for Pleasant Valley Sunday.
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