It has been hard, damn hard, to begin the rewrite of The Lost Novel. I had eked out about 750 words. Slowly. Painfully. With much gnashing of teeth and cursing at uncaring gods. Every word compared to the rosy memory of what had been lost and hating it all the way. I had even started toying with the idea of just abandoning the project and moving on to something else altogether. My office is in pieces, so I’m not getting a lot of work done there and the time I was spending at home I’d end up frittering away.
Meanwhile, at work I’m on the production floor and the flood of post-holiday calls has started to recede, making for some nice availability between calls. I’d been bringing blank paper to work for days now but just not pulling them out. But because we’re not allowed to do anything while at our desks anymore, the page was the only option.
So I took out the pad, grabbed the pen … and wrote. Four pages! It’s all unmitigated crap, but it’s forward momentum crap.
By the time work was over and I had made it to the writing meeting, I was all kinds of jazzed. Splurged on some wine with the cheese, hung out with my writing buddies and even managed to get some of my notes into the computer.
I’m back, baby!