The rhythm of writing isn’t always that of actual writing; occasionally it’s taking stock of what has been written, what I did last week. Then I went away for the weekend, and while I considered immediately returning to fashioning the story, other tasks have jumped the queue. Behind the scenes, or chapters perhaps, life constantly percolates, nudging aside the words for a day, or two…
But these lulls are good for pondering the plot, of which The Hawk has plenty. In reading over what I had crafted since the early part of August, I was pleasantly surprised by how cohesive it all was, well, mostly cohesive. Pretty darn cohesive, actually, for all that I know that the reader doesn’t know. And then there was what was being revealed, in bits and pieces, which somehow I managed to leak out without giving too much away.
Upon a second glance, I shocked myself, that it wasn’t a big mess of mumbo jumbo. Sometimes (*sometimes*) a writer does know what they are doing (even if they think they have not one single clue).
It’s a lot like Buttercup; my daughter and son-in-law claim she’s not the smartest dog in the world, and at times, I agree. At other times… Well, she never goes hungry, gets lots of belly rubs, and spent much of Saturday being admired by my dad, who called her a pot likker in a voice I have heard since I knew better. She was a good pot likker, he crooned, while scratching her ears, then rubbing that belly. And later, Buttercup found a perfect spot on a mat, as if instead of pumpkins, it had her name on it.
Last week I was Buttercup, reminded that while I might not show it, I do know what’s going on.
When that happens, my goodness, it makes this whole writing gig worth it. No, I’m not writing today, maybe not tomorrow either. And no, I’m nowhere near being done. But (*but*) I do have a clue. Perhaps just one clue, but it’s better than no clues, and as long as I keep scribbling notes at the end of the manuscript, and not put too many days between when I next get around to Chapter 91, it’s all gonna be okay.
I firmly believe that; The Hawk will work itself out, one way or another.
In the meantime, some quilts are calling my name, a walk needs to be taken, a new rice cooker aches to be investigated. But behind the scenes, that novel is bubbling, much like a big pot of spaghetti bolognese, tomorrow’s fare. I’m always thinking, whether I realize it or not, as all the hoo-haa that accompanied chapters 75-90 has paid off, in ways I still have yet to understand. Sometimes the reader isn’t always the one in the dark, but as long as the writer keeps the faith, the person behind the curtain continues to spin the dials, making sure the whole kettle of fish doesn’t boil over.
Buttercup isn’t worried. Why should I be?