Writing is, it turns out, an extraordinarily difficult thing to blog about. Not so, being published of course, which is of interest to a great many people. Not so, all the things you fit around that core part of writing. But writing itself? Just not, at the basic level, a neat topic of conversation at the practical level.
For example, this morning I was up early, took a stroll across frosty grass, then came back in for a while and hand-wrote a few hundred words of a new long story (possibly a novella, possibly more) in this journal, using this pen. The words were reasonable, and some of them will survive.
After the day job, I came back and edited some. What can I say? I did obscene, brutal things to an alarming amount of passive voice, perhaps drowning it out entirely (I can but hope, though I may doubt). I placed tender pillows over the sleeping faces of many of my precious adverbs, and watched them pass peacefully on. I’ll miss them, for all of their faults, but they had to go.
And now I am satisfied, and can retire for the night a little happier than when I woke up. Good things are coming, I feel. Good things indeed.