This time, it's like setting out on a walk when you don't have a map and there is just a feeling of what I want to have acomplished when I have finished. I want to get from here to a destination that it is still wrapped in mist.
It's also like an archeologist digging up the ground in order to find clues to a lost story, only in my case the story is myself. I have been digging through a box, finding things I wrote long ago that surprise me. There are stories, fragments, poems, journals. I am letting it loose and making sense of it. I am unpicking the cloth, I am finding threads with which to weave the continuing tale.
After ten days I may be seeing more clearly or I may be hypnotising myself and be about to fall to my doom. I am the boy on the branch, playing his pipe to the mountain, but I am being called back to the flock. I don't know if I will come. There is a silence to be sung.
I keep seeing the next move, and I play it out. I am keeping my part of the bargain. I've written 20,000 words, still aiming to write 50,000 words by the end of November.