Monday Monday

Monday morning, and work is not calling my name.

Instead, I'm realizing that, once again, I haven't worked on my novel in days. I did manage a (hopefully) inspired half-hour last Wednesday night, in which I finally wrote the sex scene between Warren and Evgenia, his Russian mail order bride. That was a necessary breakthrough, and one I've been avoiding for a while.

But since then I've avoided the page. Why? I've got pages of notes ready to put in to play. I finally have the answer to the Warren/Evgenia resolution-riddle. I know a lot more about what makes Cole and Chigger tick.

But I'm afraid of it.

Afraid that, now that it's time to stop writing and start deciding, all the decisions I think I'm ready to make will be wrong. That by choosing to move this character here, or letting that character decide to go there, the whole tenuous house of cards will fall down. A friend--a reader--said to me yesterday, "that must be paralyzing." And suddenly, it was.

Now, of course, at my office, I'm ready to write. Not the brochures and reports I'm supposed to be working on--that I'm paid to do, but the novel that's sitting in my backpack, ensconced in my laptop, 3 feet to the right of my desk. Tonight was supposed to be writing time, but I'd forgotten that I have plans.

Am I disappointed? Bereft? No, I'm relieved. It's another chance to put off making those decisions. Another opportunity not to decide. What am I afraid of? Can I even get it wrong? And: does any body but me even care? That might be the scariest part of all.