I love it when I’m writing a smooth torrent of prose, and it’s just flowing out onto the page.
Unfortunately that’s not happening. I’m making progress on my novel, but I can’t really describe it as “flowing.” It’s more like “lurching.”
Odd, too, because I’ll write out a difficult scene without a problem, just whacking away at it, and then I stumble on some simple little A -> B transition.
It’s one of those type type type … pause … delete delete delete … hmm … type type type … delete delete delete. Etc.
Ah, the glory of writing.
On the personal front, it looks like my job will fly me up to be with my love for two weeks , or they might fly me off suddenly to attend a conference in Finland . As interesting as Finland sounds (I still haven’t made it there, despite numerous failed plans) I would so much rather see my love!
I have unofficial word that I have the new position, which will eventually have me move up north, but the wheels of bureaucracy in a large international corporation turn … so … slowly. Someone somewhere needs to sign something before anything will happen, and to that person, this is not a priority.