We've done about an hour and a half of writing. We'll write for another half-hour then take the beast for a stroll. The light is gorgeous coming in the window and I have lots of tomatoes and zukes and bread and so forth for a yummy lunch.
The writing - the writing is good. I'm working on this new revision of True and now calling this novel The Surface Dwellers. I let go of the first chapters and I'm importing other ones very slowly and working them with some ideas in mind. I loaded up the Beacon Award judges comments and am paying particular attention to those points the three of them agreed on. It isn't nearly as hard as I thought it might be. Not yet anyway. I'm going deeper in the showing and letting the telling drift away. I'm making my protagonists entry into her father's life much rockier.
I'm also pining to work on the newest work, Bright Angel. It is calling me from the virtual drawer I placed it in. It is shrieking and stamping its tiny feet but I'm being off-hand and casual, 'not now ... I'll see you in under a month. Don't fret!' Wow!
I have a lot of distractions. My back is out since the move and I have to go see my doc. I am trying to get registered for my pal Sue's poetry class at university, and I have to begin the incredibly tedious process of getting all the stuff printed to do with getting our reluctant tenants out. I could weep. But instead I'll just keep at it all, bit by bit, until it is all ruly.
Bit by bit, stroke by stroke, one box unpacked ... one letter answered ... another chapter revised ... a meal ... a sleep.