I jump the gun.
Grotesquely.
Delinquently.
Illegally in some Southern states.
I get a couple of characters in my head, grind out a general plot,
obsess over a setting and then jump the starter’s gun. While most writers are
still in their starter’s blocks working on the all-important opening scene, I’m
50 yards down the track, unattractively winded and face-planting in the climax.
This must stop now.
Now.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe
Post-note: Uh, yeah. We’ll see how this goes. I already feel a
face-plant coming.
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