That Saturday Thang. . .

Last night I was sitting at the new Peet’s coffee in Redmond with darksylvia, journaling a little, when I realized that I could not *wait* until the next day when I could sit and write to my heart’s content. I was really excited and happy about it, bouncing even.

This morning, all I could think about was writing. I took myself out for breakfast and pulled out the writing notebook immediately. I trashed the previous writing attempt, starting from scratch. And wrote. And wrote. And wrote. About 3500 words, I guestamate by the time I was finished. I was completely exhausted, but also, so very fulfilled. *This* is what I live for. Though it’s been an hour and a half since I finished, I’m still in story land. It’s a good place to be. I love the connections that I’m continuing to make. I also see the start of the next chapter, which is a good thing. Still don’t have a clue what all is going to happen in it, but that’s part of the fun, that flying without a net or a map, just a single touchstone, a mark that I have to make. Okay, maybe more than one mark. Still. I’m trying to keep it fun for me.

There’s a group going to see Pan’s Labyrinth tonight. I’m not sure I should go — I don’t like scary movies, and I’m not sure if this one would give me nightmares or not. Plus, there’s another part of me that doesn’t want to go out tonight — I need to start typing up the last two chapters, and if I stay home tonight I’ll get a good start on those. I might be able to finish them this weekend, so come Tuesday, I can start writing the next chapter.

One of the interesting things that I’ve discovered recently is how willing I am to rewrite my hand-written draft. I’ve always called myself more of a re-writer than a writer. For some reason, once the words are on the computer screen they’re heavier, harder to move. I’m less likely to do what needs to be done, like I did this morning. If I’d typed up that section, I would have tried to massage it, make it fit and work somehow. Instead, because it was hand-written, I could just chuck those 2 1/2 pages (about 500 words). I kept about two paragraphs from it (re-writing them into the new stuff.) It was the right thing to do, as well. Instead of summarizing what was going on with the main character, you actually (painfully) live through it. It isn’t needless suffering — there’s a very specific plot point being made by it, one that won’t come to full fruition until maybe after the first third of book #2.

I haven’t really been able to write this week — Wednesday was the first day I felt well. However, I’m really, *really* happy about the writing I did this morning. Everything was just working — I can always tell because the verbs just seem to pop off the page, and I get shivers when I think about some of the images. I’m surprised that my writing went so well this morning, particularly since I haven’t been able to write for a week. Generally the pipes need a bit more priming before the good stuff starts pouring out, instead of sludge. But I’ll take it when I can get it, and today has been a fine, fine day.

One other thing I’ve been thinking about is why the book has been so much harder to write recently. I think it’s because instead of whole chapters of exploration and dropping seeds into cracks, now I have to harvest what I’ve sown, tie things together. I’m still doing a lot of exploring, but not nearly as much flying. Instead, I have to keep dropping down on this landmark or that. I’m aware of the threads tangled in my wings, of the tapestry I’m weaving. I’m no longer in that selecting colors and patterns stage, but in that weaving and actually making it work stage. Thinking back, I don’t believe that I’ve ever perceived of a novel this way — I think because of the outline, I was always at that tapestry stage with the other books. No wonder they were, in many ways, more difficult to write than this one has been.

The question I’m going to have to answer for myself is how much of the wild flying I can put into books two and three. They have to carry more weight than the first book in some ways, because the world’s already been formed. Except that the world is changing, radically so, from book to book, and that might give me the thermals I need to soar.