There's really nothing I could say that would dignify this.

Probably I am very, very sick, because I'm taking a break from writing by writing.

Sitting here, thinking that through...

Nope. Still doesn't make sense.

Brain and hands are all rather numb, but hi, words! Hello!!

Look at all your nice little shapes on this white screen.

(I have said I get book drunk, right? Yup. And word drunk. Drugged by the sheer momentum of one sentence after another. Whew. Dizzy.)

Last week, I crossed the midpoint of my novel's plot. And then in the last two days, I've cranked out 31 pages, putting me at 261 pages total.

Which sounds pleasantly book-ish.

It also means I'm staggering around the house grinning at everyone, but I keep forgetting what I'm doing or saying. I'm not exactly present.

Instead I'm trying to keep in my mind that image of the strange new city I invented. Trying to keep the pace of that conversation those two characters were having. Trying to get those last nuances sorted into words. Tapping phrases into place.

I made the mistake of thinking about my book while folding laundry, and one article of clothing has absolutely vanished. A pair of black tights, now nowhere to be seen.

I'm convinced they got sucked into my story somehow, and when I'm writing I'll find a pair of tights, surfacing in the midst of an unlikely sentence. 

This is the stage in the game when I'm surprised to see human beings who have three dimensions, instead of two. I feel like we should all be made up of words, sliding around in paragraphs, tumbling across pages. Skin is such a startling thing. Fingers and toes and noses in profile... 

(You think I'm kidding, maybe? But every time I pass a mirror, I'm like oh!! Look! I have a face!)

Momentum. Gosh I love it. It is my best friend when I'm in the midst of a project.

It doesn't mean that I necessarily know what I'm doing... It just means that every page, every scene, every chapter feels like I'm running down a hill. You can forget about picking up your feet and putting them down again (and you're not super aware of any obstacles--say, trees--that loom ahead).

Instead you just concentrate on flying, just relish the feeling of your hair slapping around your face.

The only danger (besides the trees) is when this delirious, daydreaming, word-drunk girl gets her hands on a calendar. That sense of word-urgency meets those blank little boxes, and I start dreaming dangerous dreams. I start thinking violent writing thoughts, like:

I could write the last pages today. Probably I have 180-ish still to go.

I could totally do that.

Okay, okay. I could take tomorrow too, I guess. A day and a half? Absolutely. 

So what if my hands are sore? So what if I'm only barely coherent in this blog post? So what if I don't know what happens next in the novel? We find out by writing! Let's keep writing. 


I think my all-time record was 45 pages in a single day. (After which I basically fell over on the floor with my four paws in the air, as rigor mortis set in.)

So 180 is a heck of a stretch. And okay, I guess I know it's not possible. I guess.


But it just feels possible, right? Right? You think it's possible. I can totally tell. You're nodding at me.

OH MY GOSH I COULD. Oooh. Let's go finish it. Let's just finish the whole book. RIGHT NOW.

Yes. YES. Okay. Excuse me.

There is nothing to prove and everything to imagine. -- Eugene Ionesco