I am working on the mystery again. This requires reading a previously untapped P. D. James novel sitting on my shelf (naturally), pulling out the 106 pages of first draft I’d churned out before the baby was born, and stacking on the bedside table any number of reference books of social history and notebooks of random comments like “everyone must have secrets!” and “absolutely NO monologuing villains!”
I’ve only gotten far enough to revisit the outline, revamp the characters, reread the first draft chapter and pick out paragraphs and pages that might be salvageable. No actual writing. It’s hard. Iris usually only naps for about half an hour, and to be honest it’s frustrating to nicely get in a groove just in time to hear her polite where-are-you cry that isn’t really a cry but will become one if unattended. I like being happy to hear her, and so far that means no writing during the day.
I do hole up in coffee shops a couple of evenings a week—or rather I was, until Carl’s work schedule got insane. But I will again.
Right now I’m just enjoying the windy rainstorm blowing through Michigan, drinking my coffee, reading a mystery novel, and trying to take one tiny bite out of the project every day. Less than baby steps. Baby turtle steps.
Any kind of progress feels good.