Sarah eludes me, lately. It seems as though we have reached some point - some climax - some place in the narrative at which the story wants to finally get down to business - as if all that has gone before is but prelude to some momentous moment in time which I am now obligated to suss out and relate to the page.
The mood must change - my crutch - my music - needs to change. I will know what it is when I find it - and when I find it it will take me to her and she will tell me what it is she wants me to say - what part, it is, of her story she's been holding back - that she's been hiding from me.
This is so frustrating. I KNOW where this story has to go and yet she wants to guide me there - as if I have no control over this life that I, in fact, imparted to her. I am writing this story - and yet I am not. She is. She tells me her story - she goes where she wants and does what she wants and I can but report and write and give her her head.
I ask your indulgence. Your patience. again.
I have to find the thread, and pick it up and follow it. Again.