Putting off the getting up moment this morning, Old Man and I had a writerly discussion in bed. We both admitted that, while we might know where we’re heading in a scene, we generally don’t know how we’re going to get there when we sit down to get on with it.

For me, that decision-making process is both the hardest and the easiest thing about writing. Hardest because you can dither for hours about whether your characters should or shouldn’t do the A or the B that you’re imagining for them; Easiest because actually you can just sit down and write it and then if it doesn’t work out, you can either rewrite or edit until it does.

I tell myself that there is absolutely no harm whatsoever in trying. But at a time like this, when I have the prelude to the end game of novel #2 set up, I find myself going for long walks with Morrissey blaring in my ears (this is how I think, and he is my particular muse for this novel), playing little head-movies of all the possibilities. When actually what I really need to do is stay indoors and try the scenarios out for real.

Very telling that, though. It’s not for real. It’s all made up.

Must remember that, too.