Twenty-four hours to go.

My outline is finished.

It comes in under three pages (the limit they suggested I set) and although I don't know each and every single detail, particularly towards the end, I have a really good feel for it now. The characters are talking to me now.

I'm going to spend a good chunk of tomorrow reading up "helpful hints" on plot, character, and maintaining tension. The setting for this story is difficult for rising tension. Not a whole lot of opportunities for action for long stretches will make it especially difficult. But this is the story that called me -- this is the one I'm supposed to write -- and I know from experience that it will keep hammering at my head until I finally put it down. No point in fighting it.

I don't know when I will start writing. I'm dying to start now (of course!) so midnight tomorrow night might be the starting line, in spite of my plan of keeping a somewhat-regular sleeping schedule. It's hard to say. I won't know until I get there.

This impending literary marathon is suddenly starting to feel real. It's exhilerating and terrifying. But most of all, I'm revelling in the fact that a part of me that I thought had died -- the Writer -- is very much alive and kicking.

I missed her more than I knew.