At Fosset. Under the Fir Trees, Fernand Khnopff 25,343. Much on my mind, but not much to say so this’ll be brief. Monthly meeting with Janet today. Before I go I hope to get my Nano pages done. The story is taking some wonderful and surprising turns and my characters are talking, talking, talking; I’m taking dictation and definitely not complaining. I hope they talk themselves to the end. Driving home from work last night another whole scene dropped into my mind and I listened, with one eye on traffic flow, to a conversation between Deidre and her mother Niobe, and it was a revelation. My heart actually butterflied. But when I got home I was too pooped to even open Mac or pick up a pen. With only three hours sleep the night before, I truly didn’t have the energy to focus but no worry; their voices are still going on and I’ll write them this morning. I’m not even trying to think ahead as I write this novel. I’m scrabbling along, following whatever path opens up through the forest. The trees are thick and looming, and I’m following a thread-thin trail, pale and glowing in the darkness. I’ve been feeling discouraged this week, but I keep reminding myself that when I follow the writing, get out of my own way, I get a story, regardless of the evil doubt goblins.