I am writing tonight.
And really, I am.
I am at that very big point where all the groundwork has been laid, the vast majority of the research has been finalised, all the previously written words are logged and accessible -- and I now just have to make it hang together the way it should.
The best way to think of this point in the process, I have thought, is like that of a sculptor looking at a soon to be moulded piece of clay or marble or driftwood, divining the natural path the artwork will take.
Each lump clay or driftwood, some might say, has a story within it that the artist brings out.
In the case of the written words, the hidden shape, the final grand structure of the narrative rests within all the information gathered, gleaned, researched, sifted, considered and analysed.
Yes, I could force an order on this. But, I am not writing fiction, I am writing fact. And at its heart the story is very straightforward, in a strange way -- but it is also immensely complicated, with countless strands feeding into and out of it.
And, it is also a story of manipulation and ego. To lay bare the arrogance of those in that game the story is devoid of such antics.
To respect the simplicity needed while maintaining the crystal clarity of the storyline and the joy of the writing (and the reading) the structure needs to be true to itself -- above all else.
Hence, the overview, the staring, the pondering, the pausing -- and the procrastination.
All in the name of divining the perfect structure.
It may take more than one night, but that is OK. That is part of the joy of writing.
And the joy of procrastinating like this. For while the typing may not lead to yet another finished page, it is allowing the mind to focus indirectly on the true task at hand.
Finishing, finally, the book.