Writing a novel

Paper is almost everywhere.

It almost covers up the spots on the carpet and looks good against the color of hardwood floors.

From this point, way down there, the manuscript seeps into every part of your life; you even stay awake in your sleep in order to be attentive to new dialog and other possible plot shifts.

It once began on page 1, but page 1 has become page 37. You envy other writers who possess minds that grasp reality in consecutive sequence, but you don't have that kind of brain.

The story you wanted to tell mutates into a story you can't tell into a story that can't be told into the story you started with, with extensive re-writings, and finally into the story it is, for better or worse.

Just when you think it's finished, someone you trust points out that the end is no good. But to change the end you must go back to the beginning, which is good, being careful to preserve the original's freshness and insight.

Upon examination and re-examination, it's not as good as you'd hoped but much better that you'd ever imagined it might be.

And somewhere very near the last page you have much too much invested not to complete the task.