Yesterday I couldn’t write. Took me a while to figure out why. The day before I had gotten off the rails in Trickster Noir, flashing back and telling a story third-person about Lom’s boyhood. It was a fun little story, and will likely get finished and published as a stand-alone. But it didn’t fit in my book, and my subconcious was telling me that by not letting me write any more until I pruned off the bunny trail of narrative and got back on the right path.
I have a loose outline for the novel, and I’m a little worried I’m outlining too much – I’ve gotten stuck before, with a story metaphorically shrugging at me, saying you have that *points at detailed outline* so why tell me? I’m going home. So I try not to constrain the story too much. Which is weird. I know, I’m crazy, and that follows, because I’m a writer. It does lead, on occasion, to my character or even the entire plot, suddenly taking off in random zig-zags like a scared rabbit. I just have to remember that rabbits usually circle back around to where they started, and patiently keep writing in chase of the thing.
Today, with the backstory cut out of the document, saved into another for expansion at a later date, and the conversation between Lom and Bella continuing, I’m back on track. Now, alll I need is a crisis that doesn’t feel contrived, and I shall be a happy woman. That, and a way not to write a wedding. I don’t like weddings. Maybe I’ll write it as a blur.