- Wread: (verb) to obsessively read and re-read your own writing until you think your eyeballs are going to fall out, yet nevertheless remain impressed with your own cleverness.
But I finished the chapter off, (go read it, if you like) and I feel pretty good about it, even though my room is still an utter sty and the shelves and new chest-of-drawers I bought at Home Depot on Friday are still in my car, unassembled. The novel is simply more important to me.
Of course I still have to clean my room, and perhaps I will find the time to do that instead of focusing my brain on three brand-new characters who shall be introduced in the first part of "Chapter Three," and to whom I haven't devoted very much thought: an older gay police detective, his impulsive young straight partner, and a rather pedantic medical examiner. The next chapter is where the murder is discovered, you see, and where Danny will be arrested.
The little writing hand symbol usually indicates a change in topic, but it also frequently indicates a lapse in time. Three hours has passed since I opened this post to tell you about my progress on Worst Luck; I took a little nap, and then went back to WREAD the chapter I just finished writing.
And while I was there, I decided that the last two parts of "Chapter 2" really are their own chapter... aside from all five parts being far too long for one chapter, there was a distinct change in tone and speed with the introduction of Marquesa and Valerien. So I redid parts four and five as "Chapter Three," and therefore will be starting on "Chapter Four" next with the detectives et al. (most likely after I finish editing "Chapter 2" and "Chapter 3" complete... though "editing" implies a process of pruning and winnowing, where in fact I often add more words to the mess while tying the disparate parts together and making the whole thing flow better like one piece of literature.)
But now I am utterly exhausted, I only came back here to finish this post because it was on my mind and I can't have it nagging at me. Now I am going to go brush my teeth, get in bed, and read some more Proust (I'm doing the old Moncrieff translations, by the bye, a two-volume Random House set published in the 50s that I picked up for seven dollars at a garage sale some years ago); I doubt I'll be able to get to sleep any time soon, after that unscheduled nap, but I can try anyway.