Somebody save me from myself

[desperance]

I read once that George Sand worked very deliberate hours at her writing; and if she finished a chapter during that time, she would lay it aside, take a fresh sheet and begin the next chapter. Which is a fine practice, and to be commended - except that if she finished a novel during that time, she would lay it aside, take a fresh sheet and begin the next novel. Which is perverse and demented and not admirable at all, and I swore never to act like that; an end is an achievement, and demands its recognition. You don't have to celebrate if you're not that kind, but you still owe it to the book to pause, to respect the moment; you owe it to yourself to breathe, to exhibit a little humanity, to turn away for a day and look elsewhere.

Today? I have written 2.5K, to finish the aspidochelone (which is not a short story, no, it is a 13K novelette, oh lawks). I have walked home in the rain, I have dried my person and changed my clothes - and now I'm going to start the next story. Anybody want to love me and pet me and call me George?

(NB - I have no idea whether the story about George Sand is actually true. It's a story; that's all that counts. It doesn't need accuracy, only credibility. Narrative conviction.)