I spent the day walking. After a week of tying myself in knots over a bit of Wren that I couldn’t work out, it seemed to make more sense to get away from the computer and enjoy life for a bit.

We all went to Bartholomew’s Cobble. It’s nowhere near home, and it’s full of wonderful rocks, and beautiful ferns, and there were butterflies, and something that looked very much like a luna moth caterpillar, and a great blue heron that obliging croaked at us as he flew over.

It was also hot. Very hot, and humid, and I had a water bottle that smelled suspiciously like death, and just to smile made me break out in a sweat. It was wonderful, all of it, aside from the grim reaper’s water bottle. Best of all, during the car ride home I took a deep breath and thought things through, and now I know what I need to do.

That’s how writing seems to work for me. It can go swimmingly for weeks, but eventually there’s a snag. Sometimes it’s caused by a plot that’s missing details, or a character that isn’t settled. This time it was my fault. I thought too much about audience, and not enough about honesty. I needed the fresh, albeit steamy, air to clear my head. Now I just need solitude.