I’m writing. I’m really really writing again.

Sometimes, it’s like turning on a really tight faucet.  You push and pull and wiggle the handles and nothing happens until–suddenly–there’s water everydamnwhere!

I’ve been “prewriting” for six months.  I have an outline, and pages and pages of notes.

I’ve made several false starts (and stopped, because  I didn’t want to head down the wrong path in the labyrinth).  But yesterday, after weeks of trying to “hear” my main character’s voice…  it finally happened!  She spoke to me.  Annie spoke to me. She made herself known. In a real, authentic, distinct voice, she said…

“Ballet class was over.”

You see?  Isn’t that totally and absolutely unremarkable?  And yet, it was the line I was waiting for.

So now I can write the book.  Now I can make Seven Stories Up a reality.


Writing is WEIRD.

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