I really didn't mean to disappear, it just happened like that. But what also happened? I finished the outline, yes? Printed it off and marveled at how it actually has some weight to it. Some heft. 106 pages, and you'd notice if it, say, hit you on the head.
Which is what I tried to do to my arch-nemesis Chaos. Smack it over the head with all those pages of plot points.
And, well, Chaos slapped back. With the worst headache of the year (the kind where an ice pick and a tympani strike up a friendship), emotional landmines, huge snow storm, missing paperwork, last minute urgent outings... you know. The usual Chaos tricks.
But. I grabbed five minutes, wrenched open a battered composition notebook, perched on the edge of my bed, and scrawled the opening page of the story. Quick and quiet and like maybe no one would notice.
Chaos sat back and considered me.
Last Monday, I snuck in two more pages. On Thursday I tried some we-can-do-it heroics and wrote for an hour and a half. With a bit more work Friday and Saturday...
So Chaos is still circling, planning its next move. The ceiling might fall in. I'm still missing all kinds of important things, like, for instance, half of my wardrobe. The weird burning smell from the car might be really bad news. Who could possibly know, right?
But the pages are slowly piling up.