I'm climbing out of the hole, folks. I worked for a half hour today-- not touching The Scene of Doom with a ten-foot pole, mind you. Instead, I started outlining Bresher's yet-to-be-written scenes. But I am feeling buoyed by the encouraging comments on yesterday's post, and I think tomorrow I'll put those outlining skills to work figuring out exactly what the hell I want from The Scene. I'm getting an inkling that part of the problem may be my own inflated expectations; there's been so much lead-up to these two finally meeting when they are both adults and finally having more than a few hours to spend together, that I feel like every line of it has to be earth-movingly profound. But at the same time, they both have plenty of WTF? questions for each other. "Why have you forgotten how to speak my language since the last time I saw you?" "Why did you have my hand tattooed and make me sleep in a shed?" That sort of thing.
Christ on a stick. Are all novels this complicated? More and more, I'm wandering the fiction aisles of bookstores in a state of almost religious awe. All these people went through this??
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