It’s summer. I keep forgetting what day of the week it is. And I have two days to pull a rabbit out of hat, but all I keep finding are these little raisins…
I knew the first book I wrote after my husband’s passing would be hard. I wasn’t expecting quite this hard, or the reasons it would be difficult. I’ve never had a story that was so slippery, that wouldn’t stay inside my head in its entirety long enough for me to be sure all the arcs were arcing and the plot points were pointing.
Thankfully, I can see that this is going to end. Maybe not in time for this book, or even for the next, but the mental and emotional exhaustion that I think is at the root is passing. Every once in a while, I have a good day, and the whole story lays itself out for me in all its glory. Relief is in sight.
Until then, I’ll keep on writing and coaxing stories out into the light of day. It just might be more the tortoise than the hare.
Hey, would that explain the raisins?