Progress is not always quantifiable

Yesterday I spent lunch cutting words from BG. First drafts are not the time or place to edit, but I was actually keeping the story from happening with what I’d written, and (this might be a software issue in my head) I can’t write the rest of the story, even though I know how it goes, if the part I’ve written doesn’t lead there. So. Cutting words. I lost about 200, and, thinking about things, realized that there was a gap between where I was and where I needed to go.

I poked, fussed, and generally shuffled my feet.

On the way home, I explained to Bridgette what the issue was, in broad terms, and what sort of thing needed to happen, in broad terms, and what that thing really had to be, in explicite terms. At which point there was no more gap.

I thanked her for her help. Sheesh. Why can’t I hear my own thoughts unless they tumble out of my mouth?

Well. Time to screw up someone’s love life, and begin a lovely frame job. And a kidnapping. Whee!

…er. At lunch, in any case. Damn. I hate waiting.

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