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.

ooooh

Skipping forward to work on the ending got me unstuck, and it's also going to save me some rewriting. The ending is basically a big battle, and when I skipped ahead I put myself in my protagonist's head and tried to figure out why he was fighting there. He's a wily, highly intelligent man; he's not going to allow himself to be trapped into a fight against overwhelming odds for no good reason. (And "because the plot needs a battle here" and "it makes for a cool historical parallel" don't qualify as good reasons!) Eventually I hashed out a reason that made sense, but one that completely changes the whole set-up of how and why they get to the place where the pivotal battle happens. I.e., the part I skipped past.

I also reached p. 400 on the manuscript about 20 minutes ago! Woohoo!

Last but not least, I got my PNWA feedback forms today. I knew they must be good or I wouldn't have finaled, but one of my judges just raved and gushed about the idea, and my writing, and all that wonderful ego-boosting stuff. The only negative thing s/he said was to very nicely point out that I really need to reveal the ending in my synopsis...but the thing is, I do reveal it. It's just that since this is the end of Book One, the ending is "Our heroes live to fight another day, although unbeknownst to them the help they're counting on will never arrive," as opposed to "Our heroes triumph and live happily ever after." I'd thought it would be obvious it's the first book in a series, and I'm sort of huffy and embarrassed that anyone would think I'm such a rank amateur as to not reveal my story's ending in the synopsis! So I guess I need some sort of line about how this is the first book of a proposed series or something to that effect.

But other than that, the judge said it was a great idea, and "so cool," with "a real cause, a real protagonist, super antagonists, wonderful game of 'what if?'"

And the other judge was nearly as complimentary, only suggesting that I try to get in a little more descriptive sensory detail. Which is totally one of my weak points and something I'm going to address on revision. But s/he praised my characterization, pacing, story hook, etc.

So, all in all, this is a good day.

Nightmare last night. Don't know if this is good surreality or just word salad.
=============================

Short Bus to Brazil

Plants hang from the ceiling. Green tendrils brush past windows, brush widows who crowd the road we travel. All seats filled, all aisles crowded. Each stop plucks us from crowds, from clouds. Of dead? Of survivors? The crush pushes us to the rear, miles past the backseat. Yet somehow we still ride the bus, ride the short bus heading endlessly down, endlessly south. Where is our stop? Maybe they'll let us off someday, someday when we've gone all the way down, all the way South, as far South as there is. Maybe they'll let us off when we reach Brazil…

Oooh, I like that Typo. Creepy.

Thanks Sail. Is it clear that the idea that Brazil is "as far South as there is" is the character's confusion and not the author's?

Yes.