I’m still working on my JoNoWriMo+1.5 project. Despite being ahead of schedule, I’m experiencing almost daily bouts of Help, my book has fallen and it can’t get up!
Last night I felt the need to take a break from children’s literature so I started reading Edith Wharton’s THE GLIMPSES OF THE MOON. The Nick Lansing character is writing his first novel, and Wharton begins her seventh chapter with this:
Of some new ferment at work in him Nick Lansing himself was equally aware. He was a better judge of the book he was trying to write than either Susy or Strefford; he knew its weaknesses, its treacheries, its tendency to slip through his fingers just as he thought his grasp tightest; but he knew also that at the very moment when it seemed to have failed him it would suddenly be back, beating its loud wings in his face.
Ain’t that the truth.