I would have made a swell librarian.
Victorian-era, I think.
Aged about 103, I can see myself bent over the tomes of some staid university’s dusty collection, referencing and cross-referencing thousands and thousands of ne’er read books by the guttering light of a lone tallow candle.
(SIDE NOTE: the perfectionist imperfection in me is now clamoring to investigate whether the Victorians truly used tallow candles or not. Was gas-lighting in vogue then? What kind of reference system did late 19th century librarians prefer?… Ok, I’m sure you get the rather embarrassing picture of my brain processes now.)
In other less melodramatic words, I fear I may have organized my 16th novel to death.
*purple-haired grand dame in the 4th row tsks, “And that’s less melodramatic, dear?”*
Alright, I admit to some lingering exaggeration here.
I’ve got Pound so meticulously reference into scenes and sub-scenes (is there such a thing?) that I’m having to back away from it all just so I don’t lose the plot.
Yeah, I know. That makes no sense.
Welcome to my world.
Don’t worry. I’ll work it out. After all, I’ve done this loads of times before. (Notice the cheerleading here.)
Ok, enough caterwauling.
Back to work.
Now, where did I leave that blasted tallow candle?