So...did some writing today. Not on my novel, lamentably, but writing just the same. Sigh. Felt good. As always. I just...*love* what I do. If only I could remember that more often. There's so much joy and accomplishment in threading my words into a tapestry of scene and story. And I might very well look tomorrow at the snippet I've written and think it's awful, but for now I'm terribly proud of it.

Inching closer to a Fateful Meeting between the two main characters. Eeee! So excited! And the character I'm writing right now is so delightfully consistent. With *such* a voice. (Yes, throw me a parade...I *am* storming about praising myself...sorry.) Sometimes I look at what I've written and there's this odd duality to it. As though, yes, I've written that, but at the same time, no, I'm not sure quite how I managed it. I imagine, were I ever to meet myself, that's how it would feel. Simultaneously Me and Not-Me.

( And because this thing's more contagious than the Mongolian Yak Pox )

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