Surprises

1. I threw away half of a Lindt chocolate truffle today because I didn't want it anymore.

2. This morning, there was frost on my mom's windshield. Frost. On April 9th.

3. What matters is not discovering the unknown, but my willingness to be submerged in the unknown.

That last one could use some context. Since January, I have been writing a book. It's set in Chicago in the very early Great Depression and it's about racism, revenge, extra limbs, death, God, blindness to each other, idealism, etc., etc. I'm going for something Woolf-ey, very situated in my character's minds, and the whole thing will span one week. I know everything it's about while knowing nil about a silly little thing called 'plot.' 

So, I started drawing the irrational conclusion that knowing the plot is what really matters, although I have a certain short story perfectly plotted out with imagery, parallelism, even a clincher of a closing line,--that I have no incentive to write. It's sad, I know. It's saved as "new," and has been since February. 

Therefore, I think it's safe to say that knowing what I didn't know (i.e.: plot) doesn't necessarily spur me on to write. What does spur me on is the decision to plunge into my own ignorance and wait there at the bottom of the ocean, holding my breath, until I see some flash of light. Uncomfortable? Yes. But it's the only atmosphere where my characters will show their faces, maybe even do something. I have no story without them, and without my essential darkness.