The momentum of my novel writing has slowed. Despite the numerous exterior circumstances eating into my writing time and turning my routine upside down, I’m pretty sure this is an issue caused by my own interior circumstances, my own mind. I’m writing the last chapter. The last one. After writing this I will still have earlier chapters to revise, a ton of revision work to do, regardless. But this is the last one–it comes at the very end of the book. How do you write the end of a book? Who knows. I have decided what will happen (roughly), and I just need to execute, which is what I was doing one minute ago before I decided to blog instead. Instead of doing, I will analyze my urge not to do, to stall…And this is where a self-inflicted, masochistic restriction to Internet access comes in handy. Perhaps I should buy a typewriter and lock myself in a closet. Or a tree house. Or a cabin. Or a tent on a deserted island. But with air conditioning. And coffee. And chocolate.
You write with grace and clarity.
Don’t begrudge your brain it’s necessary convolutions.