My mind has been running wild where it should be trotting steadily. Horses, who by the way turn out to be very fond of painted roses and chandeliers, know that if you break the canter and gallop too many times, you'll get disqualified.
I had completed 15 chapters when I realised that the the beginning and the middle no longer told the same story, not in terms of gravity, mood, scope. So I started rewriting.
And now I've only four more chapters to update before I can truly move on. I ought to finish chapter 12 before Peter Pan and I head for the second star to the left in ten days. So why is it so hard to get on with it?
The need to look beyond chapter 15 again hasn't surfaced until now, but suddenly my thoughts are seething with thorny ice palisades, fortunes told, white falcons and crushed, spilled souls. Maybe it's because I've reached the parts that prompted the rewrite in the first place. They fit better, and so I've no patience for them.
It's like insisting on climbing the thorny hedge when I should wait until I reach the gate. Especially when I know the gate is open.
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