The baby has been unsettled all day. I know it's the teething, but it doesn't really help in the moment he's so grizzly and all. He's in his cot right now kind of calling out and whinging. I could go get him, but it won't make a lot of difference to his mood or mine. A bit of distance is necessary right now.

Distance helps with writing, too, I've noticed. There are times I come across something I've written and it can almost feel like reading something written by someone else entirely. Of course other times it's like driving into familiar territory. Everything is painfully familiar, so much that I cringe at the clumsy language and the obvious mistakes. The distance helps, though, probably more for the bad writing than the good.

Reading work I've written a while ago does seem like reading someone else's work. That distance gives me what I need to make the changes necessary. I'm no longer so hotly connected with the piece. The passion of it has dissipated somewhat, although I have had it re-stir as I read.

If that happens I figure the writing is working and there's nothing to change, unless there's some glaring error. Distance helps me see the errors, though. When I'm writing I'm in that hot zone of emotion and creativity. Later I am removed from those feelings and can read a piece simple for the words there. Hopefully those words evoke emotion and stir me to connect again with the writing.

I've also found the longer you leave it the brutal you can be with yourself. Where once I'd have clung to certain passages, I've forgotten the investment of my time and can easily cut out entire sections. With my first novel I did that. After investing three months of time and chalking up 125,000 words, I came to it much later and saw an entire one third of the novel needed to go. I did baulk at that, for some time, but ultimately decided it was for the best.

I removed the section and now the story felt more streamlined, more in sync with what was supposed to happen. Oddly enough, that entire section became a novel of its own, which I wrote up in November of last year for the Nanowrimo challenge. The tale went from the mainstream story it had been to a murder mystery. The primary character in this version became the victim. I never did like that guy much, anyway.

Anyway, that's me done for tonight. I did begin this earlier, but have written it in fits and starts. I hope I don't get interrupted by bubby anytime soon.