No. I’m referring to that precious thing called Progress. Little by little I’ve cobbled together an outline, a reasonable approximation of the scenes that will inhabit my Norse epic. Once more the west end of the dining room table is littered with index cards.
It did occur to me, though, as I braved the freezing temperatures and fierce winter winds, that screenwriting is not altogether different than slashing a Wampa cave’s worth of ice with a tool utterly unsuited to the task.
Certainly the requirements for success are the same. Patience and persistence. Stubbornness. Trial and error and a good deal of spinning one’s wheels.
You chip away, again and again, to the point of frustration, with unseen results. And then, at last, knuckles bleeding, a huge slab of stuff jars loose, and the neighbors wonder why you are shouting in the parking lot. Hope appears.
Three weeks till Spring.