Yesterday evening, I sat down at my computer, pulled up a copy of my 2009 NaNoWriMo novel Dreamer (I lied to you in the previous blog when I said it was 2011), and began reading. As I read, I wrote a brief sketch of each chapter in a separate document, noting inconsistencies, looking for larger themes, reminding myself of the plot, cringing at some sections, smiling in surprise at others. Half my brain immersed itself in the story while the other half ran a list of a million questions about timelines, pantheons, logistics, character traits, themes, nonsensical plot twists, and so on.
I didn’t notice time going by. I just looked up and saw it was time to make dinner for Zachary when he got home. I leaped up, danced into the kitchen, and worked on homemade pizza, my mind still lost in the land of Chaldia. I peeked through the window slats at the sunset, blazing in the sky and in a puddle and on the side of the neighbor’s car.
I felt ridiculously alive, present, aware of everything in acute detail.
I had forgotten how much I love writing novels. Not just the raw material, but the second and third and twentieth drafts. The search for plot holes. The tweaking of each word. The hours of nitpicking and rehashing things you’ve already nitpicked and rehashed a dozen times before. I love it all so much.
Now I’m going to work on my tutoring so I can finish and continue outlining Dreamer.
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