Three days later, I am on a whole new schedule, starting writing in the evening, trying and trying to fight procrastination, but failing. There is a clarity of purpose I can't touch here. I seem to huddle here, always waiting for the next blow to fall.
This is not good. Something has to change.
The good news: finished chapter 2 of irresistible (though it may turn out that chapter 2 is chapter 2 and 3, I just haven't worked that all out yet) and begun a new draft of marguerite, that I hope to finish off in the next day or two.
A reasonable draft of the lake song. Lots of comments, the poets of literotica seem to have a lot of critiques, and I find myself violating my cardinal rules, and discussing with them. If the work needs discussion, it isn't ready to stand on its own. The only defense of the choices a writer makes in a piece should be the piece itself.
Some of it is differences of taste. Some of it is probably sensible. None of it is stupid, which is a pleasant surprise on the intrawebz.
More thought on that as time passes. Meanwhile, back to Marguerite.
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