(Warning: Extended metaphor ahead.)
Tru TV is showing a bunch of those police car chase programs this evening, so I have to type fast and get back before the commercials are over. You know how I love those awful shows, although I don't like the ones where people shoot at cops or get into fights or get tasered or drive their muscle cars into the crowd. I prefer Forensic Files anyway.
I have Bunny the World's Cutest Laptop set up on the bed, and I've been typing away on my revisions during the commercial breaks. Unfortunately, I just realized I've done the writing equivalent of bumping the curb during a high-speed pursuit. If I'm not careful, I'll lose control and crash, and maybe explode in a ball of flames that looks really cool on TV, but not so good in revisionland.
Because I'm doing a total rewrite of a big chunk of this book, I've been thinking in writing mode instead of revision mode the last few days. So when I reached a good spot to throw in another bit of tension, I took a side street that turned out to be a blind alley. I can't have them meet Whitwell yet, because he's the narrative equivalent of stop strips. Once he steps in, the book is nearly over, because he's a reasonable guy and he's going to fix everything. No, he has to wait his turn; I have a bunch of angst to get through first.
It's a pity, because I like some of the writing I've done this evening. But if I'm going to execute the perfect PIT maneuver here and merge my writing into the rest of the book, I've got to go back and rewrite the rewrite.