The Pl(unge off the)edge, or, another word for furniture polish

Starting, again, after many false starts. The end of excuses. A space heater in my office, my dinosaur desktop dusted off. Bad, bad alliteration. Not a deterrent. You can fix the crap later, I'm always telling people. Following my own advice today. Finding that focus where characters speak, and soon enough say startling things--when we're willing to listen. Today's eight pages barely resembling any of the previous first eight-page fits and starts and false beginnings. Beginning, always beginning; but today I began to say "I do."

To find the story you must start somewhere. Shoveling, in this case. Laying aside the dirt to reach bedrock.

A fierce act of bravado that just says No to doubts. If you can skate over top of them, soon enough they sink away, leaving a glassy sturdiness. If you can trust it enough to get to 30 pages, or 50, or 200, eventually even the edges feel safe, at least negotiable.

Till then, though, it's sucking in your gut, pretending to weigh nothing, following your nose.

A nonchalance that's open to mixed metaphors, especially crashingly bad ones.

As simple and as hard as that, telling the network censor to take a hike.