Every time I start writing a book

it's as if I've never written one before.  I forget how hard the early days are.  I do too much research, overcrowd my head, rush toward those bits of plot I know, leave too little room for language.

Then I remember what it is to take it slow.  To back it up.  To make the story, line by line.  To allow an afternoon to pass without writing a single word.  It's all right, I remember, to sit here dreaming.  It's fine—in fact, it is essential—to write what I won't use to discover what I will. 

Will the game of pitch and toss stay?

I don't know. 

Will Molly return the penny? 

It might not matter, after all.

Except that it all matters.  It's process.