Last weekend’s Humanities Montana Festival of the Book provided a terrific description of the process of writing a novel. It came during one of the panel discussions. Unfortunately, I don’t remember who said it, or exactly how it went, so I’ll very loosely paraphrase, especially the last part.
Writing the beginning of a novel: A stroll through a beautiful summer meadow full of wildflowers. The sun is high, the clouds puffy, the breezes soft. All is right with the world.
Writing the middle of the novel: Lost in the #*&%* Gobi Desert. The journey that started so pleasurably goes horribly awry. Signposts disappear. The sun is your enemy. Forget wildflowers. There isn’t even any water. Death appears certain.
Writing the end of the novel: O happy day! The best sex you’ve ever had!
Well, hell. Right now I’d settle for plain old boring vanilla sex. Because when it comes to the work in progress, I am smack in the middle of the Gobi, without even the false hope of a mirage. Every time I look at the WIP, I feel like this zombified photo of myself that my whackjob—I mean darling—daughter sent me. I’m not blocked—not a big believer in writer’s block—so much as writing in circles. The plus side? I’ve been here before. The Gobi and I are old, old friends.
At this point, you should be thinking: If you’re found your way out before, why didn’t you mark the route, you idiot?
Actually, I do remember the route. I just like whining. The way out involves exactly what I’m doing now. Sitting down and writing. Every day. Even if most of it is crap that I’ll later toss. But I trust that, as I review those poor, sad, inadequate sentences at the end of each day, I’ll find within them the faint footstep in the sand marking the way, the one that will turn into a trail and finally, as the end nears, a superhighway! To great sex!
Come to think of it, that’s probably not the way the panelists described writing the end of a novel at all. It’s entirely possible it’s my own twisted spin. But what terrific incentive to find your way out of the Gobi, no?
Which pretty much sets the tone for the entire event. The festival features so many terrific authors that to name a few is risk slighting others who are equally deserving. There’ 
One of my favorites was a slush pile panel featuring literary agents 
For the next three days, the hundreds of attendees can immerse themselves in topics such as “Arrows, Swords and Pointy Sticks: The Realities of Medieval Warfare,” “Poisons!” and “The Joy of Writing Great Sex.” OK, those are the attention-grabbing ones. And that last topic is as important as it is salacious, because you do not ever, ever want to win 
So I dropped the work on Dakota and spent two full days poring over Montana, finding 19 mistakes in the process. That sort of things gives you – at least it gives me – nightmares. Because what if I missed something? That’s the equivalent of getting run over by the locomotive. 
I’m excited about it for so many reasons. I’ll get to meet 
Anyone who’s ever seen my desk (at right, on a relatively clean day) knows I never throw anything out.
It just so happens that many years ago I wrote a perfectly dreadful novel set in Wyoming. It didn’t go anywhere, and thank God for that. But I liked parts of it, and now am happily going all Hannibal Lecter on those parts for this new novel. Which, as far as I’m concerned, is proof positive of the wisdom of never throwing anything away.