December is galloping along the way it always does. Candles, boughs of holly, ornaments, gingerbread creatures and their lairs. Who put all of these props on the stage? And then there's the concerts, plays, parties and festivals. Wassail? Why not! It's been a while since I had night free of alcohol.
I am a big fan of the seasonal hyperbole. As long as I stay clear of malls, I'm not unduly affected by the stress of too many people, spending too much money and the ennui that comes with abject commercialism.
My biggest complaint about December is that it's really hard to hunker down with the pages. Especially revision. Writing new stuff aligns with the mania of December. Sober judgment of existing work--not so much.
This Sunday afternoon, I'm thinking of sequestering myself in my office in order to tweak sentences, gain clarity on voice consistency, make back-story pacing decisions and to hopefully solve a host of other second draft problems, and I hope my brain cooperates instead of pining for whimsy and baubles and rum balls.
This is an encore presentation of a post from 2009 (because it still applies!)
Oh, madam, does this speak to me. I'm suffering writus interruptus as I write new material for an existing piece.
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