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desperanceIt has been two weeks since I last wrote a word of this novel...
No. More than that. Sixteen days, I think.
I have not utterly wasted that time; I have checked the proofs of vol 2, and read through the first half of this one, in a vague gesture towards working out what might be happening. Um.
The really annoying thing is that I had a scales-falling-from-eyes breakthrough, a revelatory moment about vol 3 - "oh, that's what it's about!" - when I was halfway through the proofs of vol 2. And I even thought about making a note, writing it down. I had a pen in my hand, a sheet of paper right there. But I got up to go to the loo, and by the time I came back I'd forgotten that I was going to write it down, and now...?
Haven't a clue. And no, not going to re-read the proofs, in vague hopes of rediscovering the same epiphany. I shall forge forth, unepiphaneous.
Except that I'm not. I'm still putting it off. I should have been on my way to the library half an hour ago, primed and ready. I could have bought my lunch on the way. Instead, I have gloried in the preparation of a sandwich - my own bread! my own mustard! my own ham! my own peashoots! - and now I am blogging about it. And remembering that I wanted to put some pork-rinds into the oven before I left. And, and, and...
Enough. I am off. This book won't write itself.
No. More than that. Sixteen days, I think.
I have not utterly wasted that time; I have checked the proofs of vol 2, and read through the first half of this one, in a vague gesture towards working out what might be happening. Um.
The really annoying thing is that I had a scales-falling-from-eyes breakthrough, a revelatory moment about vol 3 - "oh, that's what it's about!" - when I was halfway through the proofs of vol 2. And I even thought about making a note, writing it down. I had a pen in my hand, a sheet of paper right there. But I got up to go to the loo, and by the time I came back I'd forgotten that I was going to write it down, and now...?
Haven't a clue. And no, not going to re-read the proofs, in vague hopes of rediscovering the same epiphany. I shall forge forth, unepiphaneous.
Except that I'm not. I'm still putting it off. I should have been on my way to the library half an hour ago, primed and ready. I could have bought my lunch on the way. Instead, I have gloried in the preparation of a sandwich - my own bread! my own mustard! my own ham! my own peashoots! - and now I am blogging about it. And remembering that I wanted to put some pork-rinds into the oven before I left. And, and, and...
Enough. I am off. This book won't write itself.