When I was a kid, my pop used to take me hiking high into the Colorado Rockies. We did the Venerable Lakes Trail and the Comanche Lake Trail. We topped off Pikes Peak and did a bunch of tramping through the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
I was ten and had the stamina of a mountain goat. We could climb a couple of thousand vertical feet and I was ready for more. Still, some times the going got rough. You go up a hill and find a bigger one waiting beyond the next bluff. You'd knock that sucker off and there'd be an even bigger one behind that--one with a glacier on it.
That's how writing (and especially the composition of a novel) can be. I've had a major plot transition banging around in my head since last Wednesday. But with the holiday and the time I spent with Jeanne and Lyla, I didn't get any writing done during Thanksgiving. Then, on Monday and Tuesday of this week, I was working hard on grading and class preparation.
That transition kept eating at me, banging around in my head. I woke up early today, had a nice morning with Lyla and got her off to daycare. Before touching a smidgen of housework or grabbing a shower or anything at all, I sat down and knocked out 1500 words that I'm proud of.
A few of them might still be around after I edit.
More than anything, though, I think I topped off one of those hills. It's not downhill from here, but the going will be good for at least the foreseeable future.
Stories are born in sips and swallows (sometimes in lusty chug-a-lugs too, but I don't have that kind of time until January), and today I feel pretty full...