A bright yellow ball hangs in a sky that has taken on an unfamiliar 'blue' tint. I can step outside and not get wet. I'm not sure what to make of it all.
Confused by this lack of weather, I've been mostly writing and/or intending to write. Chapters take shape and as they take shape, their problems become apparent and I note them down. I fear and loathe rewrites. They raise second-guessing oneself to dangerous heights and sometimes there is no coming back from them. As with most things in life, balance is important and difficult to obtain. I've instituted a rule that I can't start rewriting a chapter until I've finished it and am writing the next one. It's a simple rule, but important, as it means I move forward regardless.
There's one particular piece that needs rewriting now, quite urgently. It's not part of the book, but it's sort of essential to it. I should probably be working on it instead of blogging and reading about the Red Sox. I need a bit of distance. It's bad, and there's always hurt pride when something you make is bad. It's not that it's poorly written, it's just not fit for purpose. I wrote one thing when I should have written another. The more I think about it, the more I feel the need to start from scratch.
Which is a good thing.
Because starting from scratch isn't really rewriting.