Sometimes you just need
a creek. Especially when this is what you've been staring at for two days straight. You're juggling opinionated biographies:
Scrapbook elements:
The narrative and the comments between you and your editor:
And a story map that's helping you see everything of-a-piece.
It's dizzying. Time on a Sunday afternoon to put down the laptop, close the notebook, and head for the soothing sounds of someplace wilder than the story in your head and under your fingertips. A place where the ferns grow and the water slips between the rocks, where an old paper mill once stood and a covered bridge crossed the creek. The mill is a place of ghosts and the bridge is no more, but the water remains, and there are wading and sitting places galore. Roll up your pants legs and stick your feet into the stream. Find a place to listen. There are so many stories here.
Then return, refreshed, to the page. Read the comments that keep you going, and realize how close you are to the very, truly end. Count on it. And... keep going.
Scrapbook elements:
The narrative and the comments between you and your editor:
And a story map that's helping you see everything of-a-piece.
It's dizzying. Time on a Sunday afternoon to put down the laptop, close the notebook, and head for the soothing sounds of someplace wilder than the story in your head and under your fingertips. A place where the ferns grow and the water slips between the rocks, where an old paper mill once stood and a covered bridge crossed the creek. The mill is a place of ghosts and the bridge is no more, but the water remains, and there are wading and sitting places galore. Roll up your pants legs and stick your feet into the stream. Find a place to listen. There are so many stories here.
Then return, refreshed, to the page. Read the comments that keep you going, and realize how close you are to the very, truly end. Count on it. And... keep going.
