When I was little, a game I liked to play with myself was "Blind." I'd wander into our back yard, close my eyes and start walking. I was astounded at how much more alert my other senses would become. I could feel the maple tree shadowing my skin as I came within range of approaching it. I could hear the empty swing swaying on rusty chains. My heart would pound in my throat as I forced myself to move forward, walking with my eyes closed, resisting the urge to put my hands out in front of me because I thought the gesture would summon my mother who might glance out the kitchen window and wonder what was the matter with me.
Writing a novel is something like that, at least for me. You move slowly forward, unseeing, not able to make out what lies ahead, trusting you'll get someplace without killing yourself.
Writing a novel is something like that, at least for me. You move slowly forward, unseeing, not able to make out what lies ahead, trusting you'll get someplace without killing yourself.
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