It's been raining waaay too long in Wisconsin.

My drive home on Friday just left me too much time to think. I should start writing post-Apocalyptic fiction. Brrrr.

Beverly, you'd probably be safe rooming with Sail (but bring lots of snacks, just in case).

I should start writing post-Apocalyptic fiction.

Yes you should. And eeep!

Creepy, Sail. I like.

Also liked Sox's stuff from way back. Please keep with the writing good.

So...I know every writer has a different process, what works for one would make another's muse desert her, etc.

But after my first manuscript, I vowed that I would never, ever write out of order again, since I think writing whatever scene came to mind and stitching them together into a whole later slowed me down and generally made the book sloppier.

So I've been writing linearly ever since. Only now I've reached a point in the WIP where the End itself is in sight, but the path from here to there isn't. And I'm wondering if this is the right time to break my own rule and skip ahead to my Big Epic Battle Scene that closes the story, in hopes that fleshing it out and getting all the drama and angst and death and courage and manly warrior bonding onto the page will show me what I need to do to get my characters to that point. Because right now I'm flailing my way through the ms and writing tons of boring filler.

So, yeah, I'm mostly talking myself into doing something I've already made up my mind about, but does that sound sensible?

Uh yeah, it makes sense. Susan, generally your self-imposed rules shouldn't be that absolute. Except when they should.

And skipping the part you are stuck on and moving on and getting the part you have already figured out is a basic part of the writing process for most people. Maybe you need to do less of it than average, but it would surprise me if you could avoid entirely.

Sail is scary. Pass it on.

Whatever works for the current book is usually sensible, Susan. Skip ahead if it feels right.

Squeezing in under the wire with a "green" drabble.

~

“It’s not much, but what do you think?”

She’s unsure, even the little sister. Even now, out of school and working, in this tiny apartment where the bedroom is little more than an ambitious walk-in closet.

She corrects the errant posture of a pillow on the sofa delivered just today. Bought with her own money, and in no danger of being vomited on by a sick toddler, doused with grape soda by a careless second-grader, or permanently dented by a husband who will claim it as his sacred terrain.

I shrug, swallow back resentment, panic, guilt. “It’s nice. Really nice.”

Her grey cube was featureless, neither warm nor cold, but there, over there, she heard birdsong. Her hands swept the smooth wall, fingers seeking a crack, a keyhole, some break. There was none, but under the pressing of her fingers something clicked, and part of the wall swung out. Out. There, where the birdsong came from, and the sough of breeze, and warm moist air wafted in to softly stroke her skin. She stepped out, into green gloom, leaves dripping with new rainfall, the scent of growing all around her. Grey was behind, forgotten, as she moved into the green.