The first riffs of panic are reverbing inside me.
With the onslaught of a new semester, time to write the novel is slipping away. My schedule is still forming, and as it does I'm fighting for a time I can set aside to write.
No suprise: time to write must be built in to my schedule, a permanent block that I attend without question or fail. Any writer will tell you that otherwise, it doesn't get done. On-the-fly doesn't cut it.
I'm still having flashes, making notes, writing dialog in my little b.b. It doesn't feel delicate, elusive. But if I don't get back to it, I'm afraid I'll lose my fluency in the language of the idea.
So I'm pushing, massaging, bullying my time until it says Uncle, says Uncle.