Apparently, it takes me thirty thousand words to find a plot. Or at least it does for this book, My Nemesis, The Novel What Ate My Brain, The Widening Gyre. (And yes, now that I actually know what this is about that may change again. One Thousand Titles in Search of a Story, anyone?)
I had characters, and a really cool world for them to run around it. There were conflicts. Things were happening. What I didn't have is the why, the driving engine for the story. I printed out the draft, made notes, sat at my notebook at made an appalling number of false starts. (Seriously, if books had DVD extras, I already have enough for two discs worth of bloopers and deleted scenes.)
I cleaned my house. I began organizing my desk. I ran through all the usual displacement activities that I do when the writing isn't working. I thought seriously about organizing my spice rack. And then, when I was getting Sam I Am's dinner ready, the why of the story dropped into my head.
Sometimes writing looks like baking, or sorting through papers. I'm really glad that today, writing looks like writing again.