Wintry Saturday

It's not an exceptionally cold day outside, but the grey sky is nicely evocative of the season, and the light inside now is thin and cool.  No lights on but the tree and the wreath (with a DVD tossing out a little bit of flickering, of course), it is filmic-ly oblique, and parts of the room lie in shadows while here and there a touch of chill sun seems to overexpose and shimmer, unfocused.

The headache is six days old today, but only for two now has it been attacking in earnest.  Right now, not quite drug free but resigned to the uselessness of analgesics, I sit quietly and contemplate the day.  Much movement sets off the throbbing, so I'm unsure how well any attempted housecleaning might go.  It seems a good day for editing and revision.

I'm at a loss right now as to what to attack.  Going front-to-back through the whole manuscript has been a bit of a dangerous method - lending too easily to getting distracted on minutiae - and Leila's big cut is long since taken care of.  I don't seem to know how I want to manage the one messy subplot I know should go - nor where to start with it.  And so my bubbling brain threatens to boil over, and - though I seem to be able to concentrate well enough - I don't know what to concentrate *on*.  Something about that particular mess makes me want to find some other minor note that can be cut, or worked - so I can work on something else, feel success, and be in an accomplished place before getting to the trickier job.

Naturally, the one thing that comes to mind is something I still feel needs *developing* - Clovis' relationships with and the characters of his sons.  Not the right direction, not at this point.  Cutting is the thing to do, not refinement and rebuilding.

So the writer sits.  And blogs.  And pets the best dog in all the world.  And neither writes - nor dismantles previous writing ...