In the next room, my husband and his bluegrass and country band review a difficult harmony again and again and again.
I just heard Greg shout, “That’s it!” A full half-hour spent getting the chorus just right.
That’s one song out of 50-some they might be able to play any given night, out of hundreds they already have worked up.
In my office, I pick apart Draft #17 of How Wendy Redbird Dancing Survived the Dark Ages of Nought. A new outline, a new sequence of events, and a new purpose for certain characters. A love interest burgeons; the ending has changed.