I’m watching High Fidelity and I’m fretting over the loose playlist of chapters from my book I’m going to read at Twilight Tales tomorrow night. I’m taking too long. It shouldn’t be so hard. Hmmmm . . .
Also, looking back at the chapters, I can already see passages I want to change or cut in the next draft. That’s not a bad thing and this post isn’t a desperate drop of self-esteem. It might be a good thing – might mean I’ve somehow stumbled into being a better writer in the time I’ve been away from this work. But, more probably, it’s for the same reason that it’s good to put a completed draft down for a while before attempting a rewrite: the words and oh-so-clever passages aren’t as sensitive to the touch anymore; they aren’t my babies anymore; and I feel a little less guilt in putting some of my lovelies in a burlap sack and drowning them.
I want to wander around the streets of Chicago with John Cusack, comparing satchels and lists of top five songs to listen to while writing an epic poem.