After an outpouring of writing, I take a step back. I let it rest and look at it the next day. It's easier to chop away then. Other times, I'm surprised to see that I like what I read.

Sometimes, after these bursts, the rest extends. I'm not sure where to go. I started a story in May of 2005, wrote a few pages, and then ceased. For this entire year, however, the main character stayed with me. I watched her shrug off clingy boys and laugh at criticism. I saw her begin to care. I continued her story. It's not nearly done, nor have I any idea of how it will end. But she's going somewhere, somewhere that I didn't anticipate, and I'm willing to follow.