This is...look, this is behaving like my own house, in my head here. I know where things are in this story, because they're where I left them, and if I know that we have plenty of those weird new peach crisps, it's because I stocked up. So to speak. It's being like the Carter Hall stories that way. And it's worthwhile to write stuff that doesn't occupy that kind of headspace, but -- this is worthwhile, too, and it's fun.
I know some of you find that the fun stuff turns out to be better writing, and some of you find that the stuff that makes you sweat blood and bullets is better writing. I'm calibrated on an orthogonal axis, I think, because I have not once been able to determine a connection between quality and difficulty -- not any connection, negative or positive. And that being the case, I'm enjoying enjoying writing for awhile, if that doubling makes any sense. I like having the fun while the fun is to be had, in part because I know it'll wander off sooner or later and leave me with the tough bits where everyone is standing around smelling of cardboard and saying things like, "Err...I'm almost sure someone left a plot around here somewhere...."