Because all hands were on deck Saturday for Parent’s Weekend, attendance at school Monday was optional. Which meant seven hours of work on the novel today. Even managed a workout and a chiropractor visit. Nice. Consecutive days off are good. Forgot what they felt like.

Towards that end, about fifteen pages require a complete scrub down and another fifty need light revisions. The last five will be heavily modified. This is a good and solid draft, and very different from what the Eight read. Because of their input, and Team Eagle Eye, the manuscript is very different. Much better, too. While there may be more work to do—some say the revision process never ends—if nothing else the story moves forward constantly. And the filler level? I’ve got a huge file in Notepad containing extraneous scenes and snippets I cut. I killed lots of darlings. Yes, they are dead. All of them.

Speaking of cut lines, here is my favorite:

Emptiness. A void the night could not fill.


I have no idea why I savored that one so, but I did. Anyway, the emptiness passed.

Four readers are lined up and primed.

The wrap date is the weekend of October 22nd. I budgeted seven days for three start to finish read-throughs and revisions. Unless there is a mail service issue, the crew will have their copies by November 2nd. Since my poor scheduling damns the bulk of their task to the wrong side of the holidays—learned nothing from last year’s lesson apparently—likely only only two will finish by Christmas. Honestly, I have no expectation that anyone will punch out in less than ten weeks. And that’s OK. I have a certification exam to study for and a longish story in progress. There’s feedback on the Stash to implement as well. Plus I plan to enter a script in the Nicholl Screenwriting Fellowship in 2007, and I’ve been kicking ideas about for that. Have the urge to write a lot of dialog, I guess.

I see a good year on the horizon.

When the clock hits half-past five, it forces a difficult choice around these parts. If I’m home from work already, there’s enough time–though perhaps a lack of motivation–to write for a few hours. Certainly enough juice is left in me to wade through a scene.

But then, staying in some kind of physical condition is important, too. Not long ago, I was a very large mammal. Periodic and fleeting joint pain remind me that obesity and I did not play well together. So instead of writing right after work, another temptation is to work out for an hour, eat, and shower. Then around nine, sit down, and write for an hour before bed. Those are my intentions. Honestly.

Option Unslug Thyself has a few caveats. Usually after a workout and shower, I feel like reading and sipping water. And maybe passing out to some music. So nine comes and goes, and more often than not, the only thing hitting the keyboard is a cat.

And that is the long road to finish a novel.

Tonight I pick writing.

An old friend reappeared this weekend–can’t remember the last time we chatted, it’s been so long–and offered three pages of feedback for The Stash. Which is an accomplishment itself, as the story is only sixteen pages. Instead of the novel, I spent time emailing, editing, then remailing the draft to them. Even though I was itching to get at the novel, the experience was satisfying. Quite a bit of time passed since I put the story to bed, so I could appreciate their ideas. And they had a lot of them.

Hearing suggestions versus hearing the same words as criticism has long been a challenge for me. If I have made any strides here, it came from walking away from a story long enough to forget writing it. Generally gaining such a perspective requires an eight week separation period. In the case of the novel, because it takes indeterminate blocks of time to traverse, the mark line is scenes, not weeks. I can accept suggestions about the prior scene while actively working through the next. One thing I’m not so good at, though, is dealing with ideas about how to fix an unfinished scene. Unless I’m completely stuck. Then all comers are welcome. Usually if I have trouble wrapping up I take it as a sign I’m trying too hard and work on another manuscript until the hunger starts.

See, that’s the greatest reward about writing a novel on your own dime. When to press ahead is always at your discretion. No micromanagement in sight.

This weekend promises lots more free time than last, which is a good thing. Though I already miss last weekend’s festivities. Reflecting on a good wedding always makes me smile.

Autumn started this week. Maybe Wednesday morning, I think. Fall is my favorite season; it means cross country. Not coincidentally, it’s also the time of year I enjoy running the most. As much fun as cross country is, I want to try fell racing.

Fell racing is a British sport–as I understand it, anyway–where competitors run down slopes fast as they can manage. Their task: remain vertical and reach the line in one piece. Basically, the more a racer fights gravity, the harder and more dangerous the descent, the more likely an injury. So the trick appears deceptively simple. Racers stay in control by ceding control. And the only way to do that is to stay in motion and let their steps fall where they may. Which is rather like rock climbing or writing. Fight the wall or the page, and it hurts. But try your best, keep moving and somehow the next hold, the next sentence, appears.