Every Spring without fail I have an idea for a novel.
On the first day of writing, I will bang out thousands of words in notes and sections of prose and conversations where I will fill in the names and details afterwards.
On the second day of writing, I will sit in the garden with my notebook, watching the bees sniff lazily at the rosebush I should probably be pruning. Then I scrawl furiously for an hour and a half.
On the third day of writing, I will transfer notebook notes to laptop and feel smug about wordcount.
On the fourth day, I won't write much but will try and fill in the names and details I omitted during the rush of creativity on day one.
On the fifth day, I worry that I'm not progressing as fast as I was earlier. I re-read the earlier stuff and start to hate it.
On the sixth day, I wonder if there is anything in my archive that I can crowbar in to get the wordcount up.
On the seventh day, I wake up and see that autumn has come and I go back to bed and wait for Spring and a new idea.