"I think I just pulled a ligament in my brain."
that's what happened to me. i went into total shock. first up, i came into day one still not decided about which of two or three novels to attempt, and then at the last moment flung myself into something completely unexpected, which had been major in my life for a long time but sort of buried because very fraught, and i was amazed how the subject took hold of me. but i sort of flew with it till i fell off, bruised and battered. like, my novel wheeled about suddenly and sent me flying off.
i felt physically bruised all over.
i was going to stop there, because obviously i needed to have a look at what i'd been keeping submerged - not that it isn't interesting in its way, but it is unshared because not likely to be believed, and so is crucial to my integrity as a writer, and in danger of alienating me from readers. these are tough, deeply personal themes to deal with and rushing them off the top of my head while not stopping to deal with the energy and passion of it seemed counter-indicated, a bit irresponsible - it gave me pause. but then i'm back to work, though i hardly know why. it has to be written, even if no one reads it.
it will blast the hardened plug of repression from the volcano of my literary career, if nothing else, and then i'll be able to revive the old flows and weave in the new and maybe produce a stream of useful fiction. something to do in my old age
and here's an omen! just as unexpectedly, the day i resumed the novel, esmerelda, our angora goat, kidded. she'd been very affectionate lately, but with her fleece just about full and the feed so flush in the pasture and they're all in fat condition anyway, i had not suspected that she'd brought on the buck that late in the season. i'm calling her healthy little son wrimo.