Remember my problem with the pink sweater? I do believe I've found a purpose for it. It's amazing. I had no idea why it was in there in the first place, and I was scared of keeping it in there, and now I see where it goes (or at least, where it can go).
I think this is what writing is all about, and why writers love it so much. It's all about the discovery, it's about putting together the puzzle. It's about painting a picture. It's about playing with toys.
The problem now is that I am stuck on a small scene in-between. I've got a bunch of pieces of it, but I don't know how to fit them together in a sequence that's exciting and true (true in the sense of plausible). I'm trying to figure out the most plausible thing, and still have it be easy to write.
Labels: Black Hole Son, writing