Can you believe it's only Thursday morning? This has been the longest week known to mankind. Ever. No, really.
Perhaps it's because the weekend is staring me in the face, my already-double-booked weekend with no days to myself, and I am pre-emptively weary.
More likely it's the fact that the faerie novel hates me — no, wait, I hate it. We hate each other!
I've hit the patch in the alpha draft where it's all just an enormous muddle in my head, and I feel like I can't possibly wade forward with the words until I actually see if there's a cohesive story structure hidden beneath the detritus that is the draft so far. On the other hand, if I stop, and attempt to find said cohesive story structure, I know I'll either find myself convinced there is no story, or else convinced there is a story and if I just START AGAIN I'll find it. Or even both, which is not a marvellous headspace in the least, and I don't recommend it. At all.
I tried, on Sunday, to "quickly" scan through what I'd written so far. Not stopping, not plotting, just a read-through to jog my memory as to what happens in each scene so I know what's been set up (or failed to be set up) and what needs teasing out and what needs wrapping up. And, yup, sure enough: I want to simultaneously push onwards and FINISH THIS SUCKA and also go back to the start and write something, I don't know, SALVAGEABLE.
The solution to this dilemma would be ever so much easier if I had any idea what to write next.