Once again I find myself sitting on the floor surrounded by dozens of little piles of plot. No matter how hard I try, or how carefully I plan, my novels all are born this way.
The final scene, almost but not quite, completed, lays at my right big toe. The opening scene, a dialogue skeleton, lies right beside it. A hodgepodge of sex scenes crowd my left hip, while banter spreads messily about all over the darn place.
A day of upkeep is in order, I’m afraid. *sighs*