Rainy today, with heavy cloud cover that makes things so wonderfully dreary. I couldn't stand this weather all the time, but I really enjoy it once in a while.

The work is going well today. Really well actually: I'm surprised at how coherent the narrative function is managing to be. I'm taking a moment away to tell myself that these moments do happen, because I'm certain to forget soon when the slogging starts.

On his website, Neil Gaiman recently wrote in his blog that sometimes writing is like driving on a crystal clear day where you can see exactly where you are going, and on other days its like driving in fog, and you just have to push through and hope your destination becomes apparent. I like that an awful lot.

For me, writing is often like walking in flat, delta farmlands. Enormous flat expanses stretching on and on,  making a mockery of any sense of progress and, when the going gets muddy, a mockery of even a sense of movement.

There is a transition to be made, I think, from the cotton and bean fields where I spent my early childhood to the hills and mountains of my teens...

I fear I could labor this metaphor until it gave birth to some really bad material. I think I'll go back to the story I was working on. I'll check in later...