Recently, a week or two ago, I lunged for the ending of Kaleidoscope Window, the novel -- and missed. Much like one of my cats doing something squirrely and flying across the room only to run into something rather than making some fantastic ballet-like cat move. I was surprised. Kaleidoscope Window remained unwilling to end. It's one of the first novels I've had to instruct that it was time to end - Yes, I know, we could go on with the build up forever, but I really want to get to the ending now -- instead of heading there on its own.
Wednesday night, we got there. I wrote 17 pages that night (11.5 handwritten in my sort-of speedwriting partial code, in gel ink, in a blank book, yep, that's the process) and got over 4700 words and found the end, at which point I went to bed giddy.
And? And yesterday I was irritated that the only writing I did was nonfiction and the fiction remained aloof, like a cat stating I sat on your lap yesterday. Don't be greedy. (There are many cats in this post.)
Today, having completed the typing and printing of this first so-full-of-holes draft of Kaleidoscope Window, the fiction came back and mushed on my calves and wound its tail around my knees and we wrote 5 pages or so of Angelica's Room, which is the Next-Novel-Already-in-Progress, since it was impatient and unwilling to wait and I've been toying with it (or, really, it's been toying with me) all summer. Five pages in that blank book is only 1500 words, not the 1875 it would have been in the Big Blank Book from Wal-Mart that supported KW. But we mustn't be greedy.
...Think I'll go see if the fiction wants to play s'more.
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