I have spent a good amount of time this week
despairing rejoicing revising.
I’m seeing some good connections, finding things I need to expand, refocus, or move around. I’m beginning to think I might have a book after all, that I might finish this summer, no problemo, what was I so worried about?
And then, fifteen minutes ago, it all came to a jangling halt.
The problem chapter in the problem section is blitheringly incoherent. I don’t know enough to write it.
So it’s back to the primary sources (which I think I have). It’s crying into my metaphorical beer. It’s back to work, motherfucker. No one said this shit would be easy.