200 pages in the notebook. 200.
In the Physics of Mind, this landmark has meaning.
The story is beginning to accelerate under its own momentum. Whole pages of why begin to appear, rather than just sentences…although those are multiplying apace, as well. Characters begin to orbit around the nucleus of inner meaning. Particles of plot collide.
The book is still filled with mysteries; dark matter that refuses to be explained. I have calculated to purchase another notebook, exactly like the one I am using, wanting to cause the thought-experiment to flow seamlessly into its next phase.
Writers are observers, as much as we are anything. We require patience of ourselves. We ask ourselves to bring our best guesses to the experiment, and watch to see them proved or disproved. There is no one right answer; there is only our best guess that opens the door on a bigger picture.
I am my own CERN supercollider. I am the observer, hoping to catch glimpses that will make the substance of my private universe clear. I can’t cause it—the story happens outside of me—I can only follow it, create the right staging that will let it happen on its own.
The story happens with (forgive me) not a Big Bang, but pleasing whimper.