Writing a novel is akin to seeking the right path through your own internal labyrinth. Each decision brings you to another, whereupon three new options present themselves. None are absolutely correct, nor any one of them truly false. For there is no true path, no one way from beginning to end, but rather a plethora of potential approaches, each taking you from Once Upon a Time to The End in their own manner and style. The question therefor becomes: am I enjoying myself?
Writing the first draft of a novel is akin to running through the labyrinth with little more than a sketched map in hand and your own eyes and heart to steer you. You make choices on impulse, may perhaps hesitate and return to the last fork in the path, but inevitably you need to trust your instincts and just keep moving forward.
Only with your second draft will you be able to soar up and gaze down upon the whole construct from a bird’s point of view, tracing your path and noting where you went wrong, reaching down to correct and improve. With your first draft, however, you can only run run run. And hope you don’t take so wrong a turn that you end up in the Oubliette, or the Bog of Eternal Stench.
Either way, another couple of thousand words down this morning. At the very least I’ve lived to survive another day.