I'm 97,000 words into Stag in Velvet, and I've finally reached the first part of the extended climax. This evening I wrote up to the end of a scene that I wrote a year and a half ago. Now I'm off the map--although I do have an outline.
After I reached that stopping point, I wasn't entirely sure where to start the next scene. I put my shoes on and went out for a walk to think about it. It's a gorgeous, perfect day here, and as I walked around town and thought about the story, I had one of those "right here, right now" moments.
I live in a small East Tennessee town, with comfortable neighborhoods where people wave at me as I pass and cats stare at me, and where the shadowed and jungly East Tennessee forest backs right up against people's houses and everyone's fine with that, thanks--leave your soulless tract developments at the door. I was planning to move closer to my job this fall when my lease comes up, but I think I'll stay. I'd love it here even if I didn't grow up in this town, but having so many years of memories tied up in this place makes me feel like I'm living in a big security blanket.
My life is admittedly dull, even if my neighbors do seem determined to fill their yard with things that belch flame, but I'm happy with it. I'm even happy with my writing career--I may not have left the runway yet, but I've lifted off the ground. I wouldn't trade anything about my life for anyone else's, not even J.K. Rowling's.
Well, okay, I'd take the money.