Yesterday the temperature was in the 80's: today it barely made 60, and the mountains were veiled in wind-raised dust. The hedgehog cactus buds are ready to burst, but not actually open yet; the mesquite trees are covered in tender spring green and the palo verde trees are timidly starting to bloom, and everyone is miserable with allergies.
I'm having a minor crisis of confidence about the current story. I've been faithfully giving it 500+ words a day for more than two weeks, with only one lapse; the trouble is that they consist entirely of people sitting around and talking, or occasionally walking somewhere else so they can talk some more. It's supposed to a mystery/thriller type thing, which is really not my genre; the mystery is slowly unfolding, and a couple of offstage dead bodies have turned up, but nothing especially thrilling is going on, and I'm finding that I can't remember why, back around the turn of the (pedant-approved) millennium, I wanted to write this story at all. Tired as I am at the moment, it's tempting to step back and let it sit a day or two while I try to get some perspective, but I'm afraid of losing my momentum if I do.
I'm having a minor crisis of confidence about the current story. I've been faithfully giving it 500+ words a day for more than two weeks, with only one lapse; the trouble is that they consist entirely of people sitting around and talking, or occasionally walking somewhere else so they can talk some more. It's supposed to a mystery/thriller type thing, which is really not my genre; the mystery is slowly unfolding, and a couple of offstage dead bodies have turned up, but nothing especially thrilling is going on, and I'm finding that I can't remember why, back around the turn of the (pedant-approved) millennium, I wanted to write this story at all. Tired as I am at the moment, it's tempting to step back and let it sit a day or two while I try to get some perspective, but I'm afraid of losing my momentum if I do.