I resolved to blog today. And even though it’s 12:05am, it still counts as today. I make the rules.
But, thanks to my daughters, I have an actual thought about writing. Background: my girls each have a little pearl necklace on a tiny silver chain (one pearl per birthday). Imagine little girls deciding to get out their necklaces to play (without parental consent) and getting the two thin chains (and nine total pearls) tangled beyond comprehension, tangled into a unified snarl nest of sterling with nine little oyster eggs imprisoned throughout. Now imagine a father (an unirritated, shockingly patient father) sitting in front of an episode of Law and Order, but not paying any attention to the detectives hard at work. Instead, he holds a needle in each hand and his neck is kinked as he hunches over the balled up knot of links. He is picking, picking, picking, hunting for sense, for straightness, for strands that connect, for pearls.
That’s what writing a novel is like. (At least for me.)
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