Ramona has a new ball.
We spend our days thusly:
I write a sentence.
Ramona rolls the ball under the couch.
Ramona barks.
I get up to retrieve the ball from under the couch.
I sit down.
I write another sentence.
Ramona rolls the ball under the couch.
Ramona barks.
I get up.
And so on.
There’s a rhythm to the whole thing.
It doesn’t seem like the most ideal situation for getting anything done.
But still, a novel is getting written—one sentence at a time.

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