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Section 179: 665 words. 1505 total. Done.
Section 180: 299 words. Done.
Section 181: Tensions and learning to grieve. Not written.
Section 182: Dealing with Garet. Not written.
Section 183: Loose ends and Lita. Not written.
Section 184: Fear the smuggler lord. Not written.
Section 185: Last reconciliations. Not written.
Section 186: Cathedral scene. Not written.
Section 187: Epilogue. Not written.
I know how it goes. I know how the rhythm works. I have all the ends that need to be tied up right there. I have it in my hands.
This is deeply weird, in a profoundly cool sort of way. I can hold the whole thing. I can see to the end from here, and I can see everything there; I've thrashed through the mists far enough that I can see my destination and the road to get there. Wheee!
Just so I say something that isn't writing content while Novel Eat Brain, I'm having a day full of trying to describe flavour in synaesthetic terms. Which led me to saying this on rasfc, about my lime-ginger mead: "At six months it was light and dry and at this point I go off into synaesthetic ramblings about pale silver-greenish blueness and clear, high-pitched crystalline notes, so I should stop now." This was apparently more useful than my rantings about why I don't like chocolate ice cream. (It tastes burnt, which is the wrong word, but it's the closest I can get without actually explaining that it's got a sharply square-angled cliff and falls off to the right into grey smoke, and I don't like flavours with sudden drops in.)
Section 180: 299 words. Done.
Section 181: Tensions and learning to grieve. Not written.
Section 182: Dealing with Garet. Not written.
Section 183: Loose ends and Lita. Not written.
Section 184: Fear the smuggler lord. Not written.
Section 185: Last reconciliations. Not written.
Section 186: Cathedral scene. Not written.
Section 187: Epilogue. Not written.
I know how it goes. I know how the rhythm works. I have all the ends that need to be tied up right there. I have it in my hands.
This is deeply weird, in a profoundly cool sort of way. I can hold the whole thing. I can see to the end from here, and I can see everything there; I've thrashed through the mists far enough that I can see my destination and the road to get there. Wheee!
Just so I say something that isn't writing content while Novel Eat Brain, I'm having a day full of trying to describe flavour in synaesthetic terms. Which led me to saying this on rasfc, about my lime-ginger mead: "At six months it was light and dry and at this point I go off into synaesthetic ramblings about pale silver-greenish blueness and clear, high-pitched crystalline notes, so I should stop now." This was apparently more useful than my rantings about why I don't like chocolate ice cream. (It tastes burnt, which is the wrong word, but it's the closest I can get without actually explaining that it's got a sharply square-angled cliff and falls off to the right into grey smoke, and I don't like flavours with sudden drops in.)
