Out with the old, in with the new: after taking about a week "off", it's been back into writing stories, this time the Clockmakers story. And of course I wasn't really taking time off. I was instead taking some time up front to make sure I knew the end of the story, the point toward which it was driving and why, in the hopes this would make writing it rather more streamlined.
Of course, no plan survives first contact. Having written the first 2,500 words of the story, the precise ending I had in mind quickly began to feel nebulous. Not the facts of it, but the reasons for it. Initially I told myself it was just because I hadn't outlined the middle very well; the emotional heart was still the same, it was just how I was getting there that was changing as I wrote.
But last night I received some feedback on Cherry Crow Children, and how it fits together with Briskwater and Wages of Honey, and this morning, after soldiering on for another 500 words, I've had to admit defeat. I think I've misconstrued the foundations of this story. Dammit.
In the end, I know the story will be much better for my having stopped now, ripping everything back up and re-plotting it as I will be (hopefully by the end of today, Squawk willing) — but I must admit to feeling disheartened right this second. Writing is awesome, but not necessarily easy, and writing around a baby is next to impossible.
I've spoken to other mums, who all tell me they used to spend their unable-to-write time furiously thinking and re-thinking and plotting and pondering, so that in the precious few moments they did get a keyboard or a piece of paper, the words just poured out. I really need to master that.
In the meantime, it's back to clocks, shame, and dandelions for me and this story (and teething rattles for Squawk).