Sometimes the idea of being a drunken writer, haunted and gaunt of feature, harrowed by late nights and fevered mornings, burnt from within by too-tight intensity and snarling need, is an appealing one. There is a seductive air of eloquent distress to such blatant drive and self destruction. On the other hand, being me is just fine, with a little more cake and a bit more discipline. Okay, perhaps a bit more than 'a little' and 'a bit'. Especially the latter.
Today progress has been made. I seem to be developing this story in a somewhat organic manner, layers of context and understanding coming in fits and starts. I have the characters and the main story arc but I am trying not to be too prescribed and too planned, I know from my NaNoWriMo experience that the characters can take me in unexpected directions, leaving me ruing the mercurial nature of their decision making.
The last time I blogged about the story I had finally nailed the nature of the opposing protagonist(s), and today I finally understood the relationship between the two contexts in which my two main plot-lines will be operating.
I have written chunks of the story, and now I just need to write the rest. I need to make it all fit together and complete a rough draft to be cut, expanded, reshaped, torn down, rebuilt, agonised over, stripped down, bulked up and made final.
I wish I hadn't just written that. The enormity of it looms over me, but you know what they say about eating elephants. Yes, one spoonful at a time.