Ok, so an extended metaphor for my writing experience thus far with my new book:

I’m on a raft, poling my way through the swamps and serpentine rivers of the Everglades. Got it? Me, wearing frayed jeans and a sleeveless vest, gondola style pole in hand, making my way from the heart of the Everglades and into the Gulf.

At first it was smooth drifting. I started out in a river that was narrow but which had a fast current; there were too many bends ahead for me to see where it led, but given the speed at which I was moving I was confident it was going to take me somewhere. After a good afternoon’s floating along, with but the occasional prod from my stick, I called it a night and tied up at a stump.

Next morning, the stream opened up into a broader river. Shallower, moving more slowly, but progress was still definite. The vegetation died down a little, lost height, became more bushes and reeds, but still I carried on, feeling confident.

And then! Buggrit. The river lost all definition, became swamped by sawgrass. Thick, reedy, spreading in every direction. I tried to forge ahead, but quickly lost momentum and came to a standstill. Poking my pole down into the mulch and muscled my way forward about ten yards, but then came to a complete stop. Took a break, sat down, napped, stood up, picked up the pole, did some more shoving, but to no avail. The woods and dense swamp are behind me, before an open plain of endless sawgrass, featureless, blank, totally defeating.

Curses! I’ll not give up. Even if I have to haul myself back up stream, and look for another tributary. Just a temporary setback. Lucky for me, there are no bugs in this swamp, so that’s okay.

Still. Buggrit.