Right now, it’s just you and I.
Right now, I’m enchanted by you. The plot feels organic, growing fresh and clear from the motivations of the characters, some of whom I know of old, and some of whom are new and interesting and whose very existence was a surprise. No one else has seen your storyline. No one else knows you the way I do, and I know so very little. I know I will discover more. A lot more.
Writing is not a struggle.
There will be days. Days when I hate you, and want to stuff you in a box, and possibly burn the box and scatter the ashes – maybe in the four corners of the city I live in. Maybe in the four corners of the state. Days when I will want to deny your existence. Days when I might, maybe, admit you exist, but refuse to produce you.
And although you’re not the first, you are special. This is the first time I’ve felt like I have something of a handle on this process. It feels like I might have my head wrapped around what it means to write a novel, instead of scurrying frantically after pieces of the process as they zip past me, hoping like hell I got at least some of it right.
Time will tell.
I will push you away. I will dive back in. I will curse at you, ignore you, and editorially flay you to bits. Most likely I will question your value and your right to exist.
But I won’t abandon you. And I won’t just phone you in.