I just revised pages 1-85 of Book 3. I feel like I've had a satisfying workout. The reader will still be getting to know the main character in most of those pages, but I feel like I've shaded him in better. I'm getting to know him better each time I work on this, too.

I was really planning to be working exclusively on part 2 by this time (which is pages 200-350), but being sure of the first 50 pages of the book makes the rest come easy. And sometimes I learn things toward the end that could be better if planted in the first 100. But I feel like 1-100 are in pretty good shape now. I can't promise I won't return to them, though, because I know I will. Much of this journal in the summer and early fall has to do with frustrations over the first 15 pages. So if it took months and months (and a trip up to Vermont to think about it) to figure out what to do, then it's no surprise I've spent this much time on 1-200 as a whole.

Recently, I wrote to my agent, "When I was an unpublished writer, I used to throw a lot of poop at the wall to see what would stick. Now that I know you, I don't want to throw poop at you."

What I really thought through most of my twenties was that once you get an agent, suddenly they think you're a genius and they want to read all that stuff under your bed and in boxes, and they will get all of it published for you. Of course, that's not what happens. Crap is still crap. Or, more accurately, a learning experience. But not necessarily publishable. Most of the junk I wrote is still junk, and some of it is decent stuff that may see life in some other form, some other day when there's world and time. Even the most famous writers still have plenty of stuff no one will ever want to read. I wouldn't mind seeing J.D. Salinger's notebook scribblings, but Salingers are few and (cliche warning) far between.