I’m labouring under the weight of a head cold. Everything is distant and fuzzy. My nose is a mucus tap that is switched on permanently.
I’ll get better. That is the way of these ailments. They are irritating while you have them but they pass.
Despite the cold I’ve been working on a re-write. The problem with writing in this state is that the quality of my work becomes erratic. I’m not the best judge of spotting this when each sentence requires a lengthy negotiation between my clogged brain and lethargic fingers. I don’t plan on sending anything out until my reasoning returns to a clearer state.
I hope to get over the hump of the writing today, or tomorrow if my mind and body refuse to cooperate with my plans. The difficulty arises from the fact that this re-write requires a complete shift in point of view, which has major ramifications for the story. The last section (where I am now) will entail the most revision. Generally, when I am faced with this kind of massive re-tailoring of a story I can become despondent, and reluctant to tackle the chore. This time I embraced it because the new narrative voice seemed so right for the story.
My brain just doesn’t seem up to the challenge of the last section at the moment, however. If I was just engaged in prose gentrification I doubt it would be such a struggle, but coming up with original works feels like the burden of Atlas.
I’m not sure that yesterday’s sortie into the new scene was useful. Maybe it’s best to think of it as a scouting mission. I have a better sense of the lay of the land, and what I wish to say. Now, I’ll avoid the bog and take the shortcut through the mountains; a difficult route that requires more skill and attention – and wouldn’t it be cool to pick up an army of the undead while I’m there?
Every battle is made easier by an army of the undead.
Or flying monkeys armed with tasers.