It's odd for me how considerate this book is being. I know the endings of act one and the entire plot progression of act two (I have a detailed three-page synop for act two written, and a general bulletpoint arc for the whole book) and normally right now I would be writing in a consuming frenzy to get everything on paper before it gets away. But right now, Stratford Man is letting me take my time and do things carefully.
I wonder if the book knows it's difficult, and doesn't want me messing anything up? In any case, I've never tried anything this intricate before, and I'm pleased to see my brain stretching, bit by bit.
Man. This is my seventh novel. Tenth, if you count the unfinished ones/juvenilia. I suppose I should be pretty pleased with myself right about now.
Maybe I'll have the energy to be smug after I nap.