Had a very difficult time staying awake yesterday, but I woke at midnight and cheerily wrote my way into this lovely cold morning. The poodle is now up as well, curled on the couch beside me. Tea at hand, ready to reread a bit of what I’ve written over the past six hours. I’ll try not to revise, but that’s probably inevitable. I have trouble letting go and moving forward in a story if I think something needs fixing. That comes from writing by the seat of my pants. Every word and nuance influences the future direction of the story, so if the previous parts aren’t quite right, it doens’t matter how diligently I push onward: I’ll stall out at some point, or simply have to rewrite the entire story. So I might as well fix problems now. Or as many of them as I’m aware of.
That’s not the case with every book I write, but it’s more or less true with most of them.
The warrior and the artist live by the same code of necessity, which dictates that the battle must be fought anew every day.
Right. I’m off to do battle, and contemplate the ending year.