And accomplished exactly nothing on Bridge. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zip.
Of shich I have exactly 100 pages left to go over and paper edit and annotate and work my outline for what needs to be added/changed around. And then I can begin the extensive rewriting that it will need.
Part of the problem is that this book has four or five extremely clunky passages where I just wasn't trusting the reader to get what I meant--possibly because I can't quite articulate what I mean--and I'm trying to figure out how to get rid of them and still have a comprehensible conflict. It's one of those things that's so complex that any attempt to explain what's going on inevitably results in oversimplication or the appearance of jingoism. Which is, of course, the sort of thing that fiction is designed to process. But it's hard to get beyond the reader desire to know what makes us us and them them, when the answer is really, well, we're us and they're them. That's all.
Bloody nationalists. Quit philosophizing in my fiction.