This morning I had an idea about the manuscript.

No, not the children's book.  That's still on an editor's desk.

Not the maybe-it's-YA-maybe-it's-just-fantasy book.  That's still on a friend's desk awaiting review before I send it to a slush pile.

Not the nonfiction fifty-birds-in-fifty-states book, which is still a couple of dozen states and birds away from completion (namely AK, WA, OR, ID, MT, WY, NM, ND, SD, NE, KA, OK, TX, AR, MN, WI, MI, KY, TN, MS, ME, NH, VT, MA, RI, WV, and GA).

No, it's the novel. The big one, the one I finally finished a draft of about three years back and have been letting ferment ever since because I knew that this draft wasn't the final one.  It was important that I finish it--it's important to know you can finish a novel if you intend to publish one, after all--but I knew it was just a placeholder, so to speak.  The engine runs, the wheels are all attached, and you can steer it, but it's a long way from ready for the Grand Prix just yet.

And this morning, pop, up through the murk there came a yeasty bubble of thought about how I might go back and restructure it.  And here comes a three-month window of relatively free time...

I can't decide if I should be happy or very afraid.

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This page contains a single entry by Peter Cashwell published on May 18, 2009 1:54 PM.

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