What a great writing day -- thanks for the good vibes, y'all. I can feel them. WHAT a great day. I've sat here since whatever-time-this-morning and have moved for small breaks, and that's it. Have barely looked up. Have made tremendous progress. Am still not done. And, when I look at all there is yet to do, with Day Zero staring me in the face, I admit I won't be done-done. But I will be so well-done that I can celebrate and send this sucker off.
The books to my right and left: FREEDOM'S DAUGHTERS by Lynne Olson, PARTING THE WATERS by Taylor Branch. TRUMAN by David McCullough. A PEOPLE'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES by Howard Zinn (who is a mentioned character in my book), THE AMERICAN EARTHQUAKE by Edmund Wilson, THE EYES ON THE PRIZE CIVIL RIGHTS READER, EUROPE, CRISIS AND CONFLICT, by Robin Winks, RITES OF SPRING by Modris Eksteins, and THE 42ND PARALLEL by John Dos Passos.
Whew. There's another pile on the other side of the table, but I'm not going to budge right now to read them off. The small of my back is killing me -- this started yesterday. I think it's stress. I haven't pulled anything. When I'm most stressed, this always happens... the small of my back seizes up on me, making walking difficult and bending over impossible.
Ah, I've done it to myself. And, I'm doing the best I can. Mostly I'm concerned with the narrative right now -- the story itself. Is the plot holding up? Is it earned, every bit of it? Are my characters alive and full and rich and fine? Is the storyline plausible? Does it droop in the middle? (PLEASE, no.) Did I make the right choice about that dang letter and am I racing for the ending with the best letter in the best place? Something like that.
I know my ending. I haven't written it yet. Endings are the hardest thing for me. I love beginnings -- adore them. I have a full steam ahead with beginnings. Endings have to echo everything that has come before them. There is so much that's subconcious in the writing (that I often can't see), and it all must be summed up, along with all that's splat there on the surface.
I tend to get in my own way at this point, too, and lose perspective. I am sending this novel off to my editor not a day too soon.
But I still have tomorrow. So I forge ahead. If I can get a day tomorrow like today, I'm not going to be embarrassed by what I send off on Monday morning. Cross all your fingers. And toes. And nose.
Back to it.