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So here I am, still waffling on what to write, what to write. I mean, I have ideas. I have a ton of them, gathered while writing the last three books: everything from three-sentence blurbs scribbled on napkins (and hesitantly transferred to Word, with bolded question marks at the points where my own handwriting baffled me) to complete 7-10 page outlines with character lists and themes. I have plenty to choose from, and plenty to work with.

And here I am whinging about it anyway. Amusing, no? *sigh*

Anyway, after a few weeks of agonizing over the fact that I can’t seem to get my ass in gear on what I believe to be The Chosen SNI, I decided something: stressing about it isn’t going to make it happen any faster. This doesn’t sound like something that should be a revelation –watched pots and all that– but to a girl who did her best work in college hopped up on caffeine pills a day before deadline, it actually is something of one. I’ve spent most of the last decade working that way, and believing that pressure is inspirational, at least for me.

And that’s not wrong: I like deadlines. I like feeling like I’m under the gun, and I like eleventh-hour saves. They have a nice sparkly adrenaline glow to them. But I’ve also spent the last 4 years –the total span (so far) of my what-the-hell-let’s-try-this-book-length-thing career– working on books I already had complete plots and casts for before I got more than 5,000 words in: more importantly, working on books where I had the catalyst, the major points of the plot arc, and the ending already mostly written in my head. I had the feel of the story, if that makes any sense.

I don’t now, and I’m discovering that pushing myself when something is still trying to take shape in my head is maybe not the best way to encourage a story to materialize out of the messy jumble of thoughts between my ears.

So here I am. Stewing. Percolating. Possibly fermenting. (That last one sounds like much more fun, actually; I think I’ll do that.) Waiting for everything in my head to sort itself out and some little egg timer behind my eyeballs to go ~DING!~. And I guess that’s okay: it’s not like I’ve never done this before –hell, I do it every time I hit The Dreaded Middle, as evidenced by a string of mournful posts from 7 months ago– I’ve just never done it at the beginning.

But whatever: there’s a first time for everything, especially in this business.

Wish me luck.

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