Those of you who know me in real life have seen me around town. At church. The store. We’ve talked, laughed, shared meals together. But part of my mind, the deep and introspective part, remained in the cave even as we spoke. Figuratively held hostage by the unwritten book inside. Pondering words. Planning the next scene. Weighing dialogue. Writing in my head. Always. Writing.
It must come out.
Today I’m at 63,000 words. Tomorrow I hope to be at 65,000. It’s going fast now… much faster than the first half of the book. The characters drive the action, and I’m breathless to see how a scene ends. I want to write all day but it drains me, so I write in an ebb-and-flow pattern fueled by regular activities and lots of coffee.
I would write all night, but I’ve learned that sleep is a necessity. I limit myself, try to stay balanced. The writing cave has windows for a reason, because without fresh air and relationships the writer will stagnate, suffocate, go under.
It’s the best kind of cave. And yet I’m ready to finish. So ready. The story? Almost excavated, almost fleshed out.
Until… The. End.
Then I’ll throw open the door of the writing cave, tell the sentries to go home, stretch my legs. Take a breath. Rest a while. And I’ll need the rest. Man, will I need it. To recharge. Refuel.
And prepare myself for what comes next.