I’ll organize, I said. I’ll write a plot treatment, I said. I’ll think through my implications. I’ll write out a plan. I’ll write up questions that I’m trying to answer by my chapter.
Radical revision, day not sure. I’m just writing. The writing does not really correspond to my plot treatment anymore, but that’s okay. The plot treatment dissolved into random notes a few pages ago.
I would feel guilty or worried about this except for this is always how it goes. And now at thirty-ever-increasing mumbles, I need to be just glad that I tried to organize anything at all. Attempting a plot treatment had to have helped me more than not doing it at all. (This is also my philosophy on house keeping and weeding.)
If I wanted to escape myself, I’d write a novel. And it would still be intricately linked to my psyche. Bah. Back to work.