Some writers are aghast at the notion of going back for revisions before a work is finished. Fine for them, but I don’t write in a straight line. I can’t. Writing, for me, is three-dimensional, fractal.
There is a lot more to a tree than foliage. Growth takes place everywhere. Roots dig deeper and deeper for nutrients. The trunk grows wider, heals the wounds of fallen branches. Light and weather influence its shape.
My novel has roots, a trunk, branches and leaves, sap that flows two ways. There are times when the sap retreats to the roots. Growth stops, dead leaves fall, and weak branches break off. Then the sap rises again. The story lives and flourishes because it has strong roots. Its growth is a series of cycles, not jerky spurts.
I am the sap, moving all through the tree. I am also a squirrel running up and down the trunk.