Today does not feel like Thanksgiving, not yet… It feels like N-day minus 26 hours and 46 minutes… N-day being novel day, the day I begin the end of my five year first draft.  The five day retreat into the land of completion.

I understand now what I need to do next with this story and for a moment this morning, in the early morning flush of fall crimson foliage and salmon skin sky, Luna sniffing after the trail of late night skunk,  I thought, "I can do this." My path felt possible, clear, believable.  But now, after trying a bit of writing this morning, fear  grips my jaw again. 

What I need to do is let my main character Jane be larger, more her.  One friend said, "Right now, Jane is functioning as a character to tell the rest of the story through, to make comments about her dad and Whit and Bo and she needs to realize her self, the potential for her to an authentic hero."
For years I’ve been struggling to tell this story but I’ve been over-determining the story, not allowing Jane to grow up and be her own person and determine, at least to some degree, the story’s arc, outcome, meaning. She is stunted.  By me. 

She is there.  I can see her.  I can feel her.  But I’m afraid and unsure how to let her through.  As well as confused: how much do I, the novelists, get to control the story?

"Harvest follows trust, not control."  Angeles Arrien

Off to walk and watch a family soccer game and hope my husband doesn’t get hurt!