As I approach the ending of my current novel, I feel a lot like this little creature, rushing from one scene to the next, back and forth to weave the story's strands into what I hope will end up as a cohesive tapestry. At this point, I'm all over the place each day, as I shore up some clues, downplay others... even add or overhaul a character completely to make him/her better fit the whole.
I'm well aware that not everyone works this way, but it seems to be the only way for me to tell a story. And most of my angst at this point is caused not by the book's romantic or suspense elements, but the mystery, which must be preserved until the perfect moment.
It's enough to make a weaver dizzy, and truth be told, I don't consciously always know what I am doing. But sometimes instinct's all we have to go on.
And when we're very lucky, it's enough
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