Alive, alive-o

The book is behaving like a book. The sequel, I mean. When I sit down to write, I write. I don't fidget and fuss and reread the pitiful previous prose and move commas around, I don't squirm and look at the clock every five minutes and in the intervals try to at least bleed all over the keyboard, only to produce about as much as you'd expect from a turnip. Instead, words happen. I have no more conscious notion than before of what's going on. This notion is not inconsiderable, mind you; I've got a decent framework, some later scenes already visualized, enough plot to go on with. But that's exactly what I was producing turnip juice with last week. But somewhere, some part of me does know. I'd love to know what I've done to make it so happy. Unfortunately, it seems probable that what I did was what I describe above, the continual stubborn effort to get blood out of a turnip.

Pamela