We mothers at home occasionally have to fight feeling defensive when asked if we “work.”

Sometimes I feel the the same urge to defend my writing.

With my recent explanation about my connections between music and my novel I honestly cringed at some points, expecting a voice to ask accusingly why I was wasting time linking videos or talking about my novel instead of working on it.

I felt really guilty. Because I’ve got this solid inch of paper to read and edit through, and here I am…not.

Today I talked to three different people about how I’m at this crazy crossroads with my novel. How I’ve totally revamped the time-line for a more consistent internal logic, and how I’m beginning to question the amount of spirituality conveyed or emphasized in the story.

Then with the third regurgitation (this evening, with my husband) a bunch of stuff just came completely together.

And I suddenly realized I have been working this whole time. The music, the listening, the thinking, the saying something (over and over) until it made sense.

This is how storytelling works.

You tell and retell, because it’s refined each time as your brain tweaks and keeps the best parts for the next telling.

I talked for maybe half an hour (the longest so far) about my proposed changes, and Jay didn’t have any corrections. “Sounds good,” he said. “I like it.”

I love living with someone who’s read my stuff. It makes big questions and shifts like these so much easier to talk about.

So I started writing the skeleton of changes and ended up with over 1300 words in one sitting.

I still don’t know if I’ll start working through my manuscript when my children are awake (something I’ve been avoiding so far) but at least now I know better where I’m going, and this editing isn’t just walking into a dark tunnel.

Trust me, I’m working.