This is me writing about not writing. Four days after I "typed" the title page for The Wolf Who Cried Girl, I've still not found my way into the beginning. I cannot even figure out if there should be a prologue or not. I suspect not, though omitting one, in this instance, creates a cascade of structural problems within the novel.
Still a great deal of ice and snow here in Providence.
I'm not sleeping well, though I am, at least, sleeping.
I'm back to that place where I'd rather be anyone but me. Withdrawal into alternate lifelines and avatars. Not into easier lives, or personalities, mind you; a withdrawal into those not so choked by this particular monotony.
The Audible.com contracts were located at the offices of the Audible.com editors. I think that's what I have to show for good news for this week thus far. And I cling to splinters these days.
Swings through the tunnels,
And claws his way.
Is small life so manic?
Are these really the days? (David Bowie, "A Small Plot of Land")