tidying

90 minutes going over old drafts, marked by workshop readers, tearing in half, one half in one recycle bag, the other half in another--my lazy way of not-exactly-shredding but not leaving hunks of the story out in the trash either. The paranoia of the unpublished novelist!

Revisiting character biogs, shaping and polishing them, seeing and feeling them, hearing them, taping them to my dining room wall and on the other wall, settings, and on the third wall, the one holding the History of the World in a huge spiral like a photo of a giant snail, plot points, what else?

Keeping useful notes, focusing in on the final draft about to manifest--feel ready for House of Cuts to be born, House of Dads is getting restless.

onward
when i'm not going sideways...