Last Saturday, I visited Huntington Library.
The name is misleading. This "library" is more like three or four permanent museums plus a couple rotating galleries stitched together with half a dozen botanical gardens. Both times I came obstensibly to write. You know that old writer fantasy of sitting in a beautiful place, soaking up inspiration, and pouring forth the words. That was supposed to be my Saturday.
It didn't quite work. I was too busy flitting from flower to Greek sculpture to American art exhibition to Japanese garden to really focus on this little "writing" distraction. Thus I began my last week of May with approximitely 1 hour of writing done, a messy draft still in shambles, and 25-odd pages to meticulously edit before Friday. Ominous indeed.
Now, it's Friday. Did I finish my draft of the last crucial chapter of my novel. No, sadly, I did not.
I did, however, edit 17 of the 22 pages I whittled it down to, write an 8-page chapter of my coffin story, take 2 subbing jobs, and Beta read a novella for my friend. How did I do all this? I have no idea? The best I can figure, all that anguish I suffered last week tearing apart my chapter somehow paid off. Editing came more smoothly.
Hopefully, I'll be able to finish my chapter over the weekend. If not, a few days after. Technically, it's still late, but only by a few days. And I'll call that a victory.
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