When I was a kid, I had a horse with a mouth like iron who, toward the end of a ride, would work at the bit until he got it between his teeth and then head for the barn at a full gallop, hoping to scrape me off under the overhang.
I perfected the emergency dismount, leaping from his back at the last minute and rolling away from his hooves. Once, I wasn’t quick enough and he clipped my head with his hoof, resulting in a bump that persists to this day.
Which has what to do with writing? For one thing, there’s a horse in the WIP, much as there was in my first novel. This one is the most minor of characters, but he’s satisfyingly ornery and I’m fond of him.
More to the point, as the first draft lurches toward its conclusion, it reaches a point that I’ve come to recognize. After floundering through tens of thousands of words, suddenly the book’s path becomes clear and it takes off, streaking toward The End, and all I can do is hang on and hope I don’t end up with another bump on my head.
After so many months of utter mystification—where the hell is this thing heading, anyway?—it’s gratifying to suddenly have some clarity, even though it means so much (so very much) will have to change in the rewrite.
Which is my favorite part. I just need to get to the barn.
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