Moving the furniture—one centimeter at a time

I’ve finally reached the place where I’ve written as far into the book as I can without real honest-to-God plotting.

I hate this part.

I love this part.

This is where I wonder if I’ve gone to the well too many times, if the boys down in the boiler room have punched in their timecards, taken their last paychecks, and split for parts unknown.

I wonder if this is the time it’s just not going to work.

I’ve written down twenty-three knotty questions that don’t appear to have any answers yet. Trying to figure out this complex plot is like moving heavy furniture across a thick rug. The rug keeps bunching up, and most times, the furniture won’t budge.

And yet this is (one) of the reasons I write. Surely, all these mental gymnastics will keep me forever safe from diseases like Alzheimers? Well, probably not. But I know I have a brain, because it aches. I go between careful plotting on the computer, to stream of consciousness-anything-goes-type ramblings, to writing longhand in my journal. I make a lot of lists. I come at the question from one angle, let that sit for a while, and come at it from another. Anything to move this giant armoire one bloody inch.

It’s awful. It’s wonderful. It is the reason for everything.