Not too much writing going on around here lately. My mom was in town until yesterday (slaving away at my housework) and I used self-control during her visit. Although my novels, their plots, subplots, and characters, were rattling around in my brain, I used my time to organize and pack.
Any time I have spent writing has been on my present work-in-progress, the Valentine's Day novel that doesn't have a title yet. Reading and editing, reading and editing.
Editing is a lot like combing through tangled hair: slow and satisfying. Working out the snags, recombing. It's satisfying when the hair falls away smooth from the comb at last, gleaming in the light.
But just yesterday I started something ... pretentious? Insane? Definitely something that's more than I can chew, and I know it. I got an idea for a new ending for my already-finished novel. Part of me doesn't want to touch it, but the new ending makes it so much more terrifying, sad, and (dare I say it?) meaningful.
I took the wimpy, safe route and am writing the alternate ending in a separate document. When I'm done with it I'll compare the two again and decide which one to use; whether I'm going to stick with my polished, safe ending, or go wild and throw in that ending twist that seems so impossible to finish right now.
At the same time, writing is one thing I do to relax. And right now I need to relax. Desperately.
Maybe carving out an hour-a-day for my alternate ending isn't such a bad idea after all.
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