I'm in mourning for those halcyon days when I could rush to the wp each monring and find out what'd happened to my protagonist overnight. What surprises she had in store for me, what strange and dark passages she'd taken while I slept.
Though I can still spend time with her, still wonder at her seductive ways and dark charms, there's never the rush of feeling, the wonder of what might occur. I have to maintain a blueprint by now, have to stick to the plan, the plot. There's no freedom in my fingers.
As much as I resisted writing a novel, I found much to love in it.
Will I ever find another love like my first one? Will anyone else ever allow me such entry into their soul? How do you let go? Please advise.
(For those who wonder, I have not gone off the pier. I just miss my summer mission).