Tuesday, September 23, 2014
The other day, as part of the Tour de Blog, I reflected on my writing process—the fits and starts, the horror of first drafts, the ratatouille of useless tangents, the chocolate that is weighing me down.
Perhaps I didn't say enough about my passion for this lit gig, or how great a gift any snatch of writing time actually is.
I'm particularly enamored of beginnings—those first glorious 25 pages when everything still seems possible, when you haven't yet run yourself to the ground, or blocked off your options, or forced yourself into an irresolvable scenario, or cried.
But I also flat-out love that part of the project when the book is in good shape, the characters are known, the plot has been worked through, and the mood and tone are widely established. Fear no longer drives you. Curiosity does. What else might that character say? What else could that yellow wreathe mean? Who else does he find along the shore? And why the obsession with a fawn at dawn?
I'm right there right now with my 2016 book. Close to done, but not wanting to be done.
I am stealing part of today to slink away and find out more.