I realize I have fallen, yet again, off the track of maintaining a blog. I like to think there are two seasons in southern Arizona—open blinds and curtains and closed blinds and curtains. Summer is definitely the closed season. Our darkened homes become our lairs while we wait out the heat. During this period of estivation, one day slips into another without much thought.  In the slower days of summer, even the writing takes on a slowed pace this year. I had planned to be through the third draft of my novel my September first. This, of course, did not happen. I am only about halfway through the draft. Draft is a curious word. In writing it refers to a preliminary version of the final product. It also means to pull along or haul. Am I pulling or hauling my writing into shape? The image of utter exertion, of pulling a piece of writing into place, sounds futile. I can imagine the sweat cascading down my forehead and stinging my eyes blind. At some point I stopped thinking of working on a draft and turned to working my way through a revision of the work. Re-seeing it. Paying closer attention to the voices of the characters. Allowing them to breathe. The question of “Does this work?” shifts to “Is this authentic?” And I ask myself, “Do I believe what I am writing?” I am a fast writer in that first drafts come easily once I find the form. I write then with the spirit of grabbing on to the horse’s mane and going along for the ride. First drafts do not always command the close attention to detail (How rough or smooth is the mane?) that is needed for the finished product to be authentic.  So I thank the torpor of the summer for slowing me down, allowing me to see the characters emerge through words and then sentences.