This is it: the virgin manuscript. I hover above it, paralysed. It looks so good, untouched, the rakish glint of black ink in the curl of a letter, a million letters, scattered and yet deliberate, perfect to the eye. A book, almost.
I know what I must do: read it, rip it apart, shred and reset, rewrite, re-dream the whole silly thing. It just seems such a huge task. I need a plan, some tools, a checklist. I must look at it with a 'fresh eye'. A fresh eye is acquired slowly, by locking the manuscript in a drawer for months. The trouble is, the same fresh eye is lost in an instant, at the first perusal; a bit like soda water losing its fizz as soon as you open the bottle.
Make the best of it, caution all those books I once read, on editing. But what if I forget something? Something important? At this point, two things happen: I realise I have forgotten everything, in fact I've no idea how to start and what to look for.
And the village festa begins.
This annual event, lasting three days, celebrates the village protectress, Nossa Senhora do Livramento, Our Lady of Deliverance (as in 'deliver me from evil' not, you lexical heathens, 'deliver my pizza at home'); and consists of fireworks, local bands, barbecues and vinho verde, dancing in the village square, and as if that - over three nights - is not enough, jaunty ranchos (the local brand of folklore) blare from the church tower throughout the day.
No one can escape them, from here to the Asturias. I am writing from a fog of folklore now, with ringing head and trembling fingers, and we're only on day one of the party. The famous 'fresh eye', the one I need for editing, feels more like an egg laid 2 years ago and left in the sun.
Urgent measures are needed; I re-read 'The First Five Lines' - an important step, and necessary. While doing so I imagine myself a bit like a young peasant sharpening his scythe, sucking at a straw, surveying the meadow he's about to cut. I pat the pristine manuscript from time to time and thumb through the pages, thinking sorry, sorry.
A pause in the village broadcast and I run to my stone bench at the top of the land, to look over the valley: wisps of mist, silence. And just like that, before the day is over I make sense of the fear - it's not just the manuscript about to be mangled, but also the ego. It will be ugly, it will hurt. I'm about to examine, ridicule, eradicate all my pathetic, writerly elations and delusions from months back, when I was clucking to myself and scribbling Vora.
Fine, it needs to happen, bring it on. Fizzing folklore or not, I start tomorrow.
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