Who gave me this stack of books ornament? I have guesses, but since I can’t ferret out an account of it on my blog (I feel sure there is one), I’m uncertain.
How many books do you count in the stack? Seven? Eight? Depends on whether you see the bottom as one book or two skinny books. I can’t put my hand on this ornament–I cropped this shot out of an old photo–so I’m not sure.
All this uncertainty makes me think of the Neverending Saga.
I’ve been working on the fifth book for what feels like a decade. It’s because I’d already written something that’s in it early last year, and it became Book Interrupted while I undertook a major reorganization of everything that preceded it. (I like how I’m rambling on about this as if anyone cares about process or really even these books, except two people who might read this and say I CARE; WRITE!)
I felt so close to the end of this book. It was getting overlong, and I knew I’d probably delete or tighten up some stuff. I had a rough idea what I thought were two to three important chapters that would bring it to a close. And then…
Two characters were all, NOPE. THIS is the end of this book. You learned that we are good closers when you rewrote the first book. Stop here and figure out a way to present those other chapters in BOOK SIX.
Nooooo. I knew exactly how I wanted the sixth book to begin, and this will mess up The Plan. My facial expression looks a lot like the one on the sun ornament in this photo.
Apparently, they are the boss of me. I’m doing a reread and then letting it go to the two people mentioned above without the chapters that I thought were the ending.
This means there’ll be some coloring in my future while I ponder the next book. It also means that I, once again, despair of ever ever ever ever getting out of 1974.
Could be worse. After all, 2020 feels like it’s lasted a decade, too, but in a deplorably non-fiction way.