Writing fiction is not easy. It would be wonderful to sit down and crank out fifteen-hundred meaningful, thought-provoking, metaphor-filled words a session. But that doesn’t happen often. Really never. Too many distractions and obligations — while one task flourishes another suffers. I’ve read Hemingway used to stop writing at the juicy spots where he knew he’d be able to take off easily the next day. Of course I’ve also read he wrote a couple of his books in eight weeks, which is difficult for me to fathom. There have been times when getting through the next paragraph seemed impossible. And it gets tougher as frustration mounts. Where is this going? What am I doing? Must I re-evaluate my plan? What I’ve lived by thus far in this journey is to keep chipping away, keep plugging along, fight my way to the next page. Just get to the next page.