Writing a novel is, of course, a mad undertaking.  It begins with an effervescent, glimmering vision of perfection, which sets the writer off on her ink-stained quest, assured that THIS time she will reproduce the vision exactly, and as scintillatingly as it first appeared. This mirage is quickly followed by the mossy-toothed skull of doubt, and then long months of slog, wherein the writer is often only propelled forward by a dogged sense of duty, and fatalism.  In other words — we keep following the sentences, one after mediocre one, in the hopes of landing somewhere, if not glimmering and effervescent, then at least reasonably well appointed. We also keep going because, really, we don’t do anything else even remotely well and if we we don’t write about what’s bothering us, we tend to be even more annoying to live with (my Best Beloved assures me) than we are when we’re embedded in slog.

Briar Rose Sleeping by Edward Burne-Jones

Last night I dreamed I’d written the perfect story.  I came half-awake, filled with a sense of contentment.  I even knew what the story was about.  It was about a man who was mediating between two warring tribes when it came to him he had the answer to their conflict, which involved both sides saying exactly the same thing, but using symbols so wildly different one side couldn’t understand the other.  My protagonist stood on a great wall and tossed a bowl to the people on one side.  He then tossed something to the people on the other.  I wish I could remember what it was, and I want to say a wand, crozier or scepter, but that seems so full of blatant Freudian symbolism I’d rather not.  Whatever it was, each side thought the item had come from their enemy, and yet when they saw it, they were stunned — contrary to what they’d believed, their enemy had given them exactly what they needed, and apparently understood them perfectly.  Peace is restored.

So, while I’m waiting for the publication of my new book, I’m turning back to the work-in-progress, which has me in something of a twist.

It’s been a relief, frankly, to put it aside for a couple of months while I concentrate on the ‘bidness’ of publishing.  However, The Big Dog now wants to be walked, and in lieu of having it pee on the carpet and eat my furniture, I am paying it all the attention I can.