I’m working on a picture book project, and I’m in that stage of revision that is the equivalent to taking absolutely everything out of your closet so that you can intentionally put back only those items that spark joy.
Except that the concept of joy has lost all meaning, and I am paralyzed by uncertainty, unable to do anything more productive than make little stacks of way too many items all over the room.
And while my deadline looms, I circle aimlessly, tripping over said stacks, unable to make any decisions whatsoever.
Why, oh why, did I have to take it all apart?
Deep down, I have faith that the right pieces will make it back into the closet (eventually).
In the meantime, I am fighting the instinct to give up for the night and fall into the abyss that is The Crown—a recent discovery that I do not have time to indulge right now.
And so I slice, because slicing is still writing, right?