Chapter twelve of The Mercy Hour is proving to be a challenge. I feel beastly putting my lead character through such lows. I'm writing her into restoration but it's a long road when she starts from such a broken state. My determination remains as high as the challenge though. The experience of writing this book is remarkably different from the first time around. Full of Days was so experimental, riding on the question, "Could I actually do this?" From the most well-intentioned folks, I heard again and again that "just that you're trying" is impressive enough. I was encouraged to be proud of the attempt no matter the result. I waffled on how I felt about such comments. Sometimes the trying really was enough, or nearly. This time? This time I want to laugh at anyone who resorts to those handouts of edification. The question of whether I can has been answered. It is only about whether I will and how well.
My imagination is spilling over. I'd like to tuck myself away in an upstairs room with a window seat and a good lamp. As Anne Shirley so aptly put it, "I just feel tired of everything sensible and I'm going to let my imagination run riot for the summer." But I think I'll start with spring.
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