Getting Back Inside
I was in Cleveland for five days.
Now I'm looking at the draft of the novel on my screen and I haven't a clue how to get back inside the story. I feel like I'm trying to type with welding gloves on. Who wrote this stuff, anyway. It's not that it's good or bad, it's just that, well, it's hard to imagine the interior life of these characters. And what happens next?
So I'm doing what any sensible person does when something like this happens. I'm playing solitaire. I'm making soup. I'm posting in my blog. The soup has cheddar and jalapeño chicken sausage in it.
Eventually the back part of my brain will get disgusted and take a crowbar to the smooth glossy surface of this manuscript and let me back inside. At least, I hope so.