One Farch Day = progress

Solitude, discipline, putting in a solid five hours writing. Everything in alignment, self-enforced confinement. Scenes with narrative and dialogue forming on the screen. Grinning and bearing the tedious moments, fighting perfectionism Bird-by-Bird style. The hook, where's the hook? my network censor keeps yelling. Shut up so I can listen for it, I say. This is a quiet story, a quiet book. Never mind that in the first ten pages gunshots ring out. A sound like somebody driving over inflated paper bags. And already, a funeral (which may or may not be related.)

All I know is that writing is like getting dressed: you put your pants on one leg at a time.