I hit a wall. I was going about my happy little revising way as if I were a haircutter with a sharp pair of scissors. Wisps of hair fell to the floor. The girl in the chair was smiling when she so often cries. And then it happened. Page 78. Page seventy-fucking-eight. I’d go back five, ten, fifteen pages all in a running start to get over Page 78. But I kept leaping into oblivion or crashing like the guy in Temple Run. So, I did the only thing I knew how to do. A fresh set of 105 index cards up on the wall.
Progress or procrastination?
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