"It's 104 miles to Chicago..."

Okay. Status:

I have read & scribbled on eighty pages this morning, in the blessed Lit & Phil.

I have that much more and a handful extra still to review, and the cursed Lit & Phil is closed now until Monday. Also, I am out all day tomorrow.

Still. I have a house. It's full of wine and fudz, gooshy and otherwise. I have nothing else to do today, or nothing that matters more.

It'll be dark soon.

*puts on sunglasses*

If you knew Memphis the way that I do, she would look different to you

There. Dunnity-dun-dun. One novel, passed in review: read and scribbled over and ready for rewriting. On Monday. No work now till Monday, no indeed.

And, y'know? It ain't half as bad as I was thinking. At least, it seems to make sense to me. Oh, it will bore some people and infuriate others - especially with where and how the end comes, with all that that implies - but it does more or less what I was hoping, without any of the mighty contradictions that I feared.

The text is somewhat overwrought, but that's commonplace; half my rewriting lies in calming things down, abbreviating involutions, drawing the high-flown down to earth.

And, half today was sparkled with bright ideas for vol three. Not plot, no no: but moments, notions, realisations. Perhaps I should write them down...?