Asymptotes

The closer I get to finishing the first draft of Mud and Glass, the longer it takes me to write each word. The reasons are complex. Boredom is chief among them, but there's also the problem that there are still too many choices about the ways things could go for the characters. I suppose that's a good thing: I'm right at the end, and the plot is not yet winding down to some sort of inescapable conclusion. That means the reader may still find a surprise or two, even in the last thousand words or so. But maybe it's a bad thing — maybe it means that my plot has been too scattered and fragmented to come together in the end. Because by this time I ought to be rumbling to a resolution, not fooling around with "What if he does this?" and "If she does that, it will explain that chance remark in chapter 8 that I thought was just character development."

Moreover, I'm DYING to get to work on some short plays, and I'm not allowing myself to work on them until I finish the Mud and Glass draft. That is supposed to compel me to finish the damned thing, but, paradoxically, it's slowing me down with resentment and frustration. My inner life is a minefield.