Cor blimey, today is rough sledding. My huskies are worn out, surging ahead with valiant if erratic leaps, tongues hanging out of their maws, whimpering and straining in their harnesses. As soon as I call a break, they all simply lie down in the snow, not even bothering to find a nice spot to lie in.

Huskies, in this case, are a metaphor for my desire to write, not my fingers. Which are holding up okay, actually. So I’ve knocked out about 3,000 words, but yeah. Though the writing feels decent enough, I could gladly fall back in bed and read a book or watch a movie and not feel as if I were depriving myself. But! Another 3,500 to go. So.

More. A sword. Slender and long, then broad and with heft, then brutal and curved, then slender once more. The same words running down each side of the blade, no matter its incarnation. Take me up, said one side, Cast me away, read the other. Twisting like a chimerical vision. She felt a yearning for it, a sorrow, a sorrow alien to her own life, but one that she could identify with, that her own pains could mesh with and through which they could be better understood. A name came to her, the name of the sword: Caliburn. Here on the Isle of Apples, emergent after so long. The sound of bells ringing, and then the vision was gone.

At about 4,000 words, and I think I’ll be fine to wrap up the remaining 2,500. But. A thought, something that I would like to explain:

Why am I doing this? Shouldn’t I take my time on each book, think things through carefully, work on the dialogue, the plot elements, the development of character and as such end up with a meticulous product that only I could have written?

Well… maybe. That does sound nice. But I’m an inherently visual person. I think of books as textual explorations that push beyond the borders of movies, but which work in much the same manner. Camera angles, action, moments of subdued deliberation, all of it following the traditional story arc that ties off in a satisfying manner at the end. As such, I find it tremendously fun to immerse myself completely in a story and burn right through it as it plays out in my head. Knowing that I’ll have to write scene X in a month when I get to it makes scene X become incredibly dull for me. I love to open up the gas, roar forward, and surprise myself as I watch events unfurl before my eyes.

So yes. Meticulous planning and thoughtful plotting may be the way to go for many, for most. But me? I like to put the pedal to the metal and just tear away at it. Because you know what? There’s always another book waiting to be written. And each time I’m getting better (I hope!)

Finished. 6,266 words today. Close enough to the mark for me to declare myself content, and hang up my hat and take myself to bed. Tomorrow, more.

Maribel shook her head, mute denial, reached up to touch her face, the warm stickiness where thick drops had splattered her face. Took a step forward, looked down at Maria’s face. One eye was half closed, the other staring to the left. Blood, blood everywhere, spilling slowly across the sidewalk. Screams now, coming from all around, screams and bellows of panic, fear, horror. Maribel raised her eyes, met that of the phooka’s once more. He smiled, that same smile, his only expression that registered slight amusement, and she realized that he had no conception of Maria as other than obstacle, a thing. Had she thought herself above it, beyond it, greater now than its petty concerns and desires?