Day Eighteen: 33,024 of 50,000
I’ve fallen behind on my word count; I would prefer at least a solid 36,0o0, but life is life and it gets underfoot like a hungry cat.
Sometimes, a girl just needs her space. From the people who live in her head.
I needed to get away from the words for a minute and deal with some life pressure, get laundry done, pet my cat, return a few emails, and somehow fall incredibly behind on sleep.
I also needed to step far away from the story and let it mature, let it speak and whisper to me and to itself as I took a rest from creating it. It’s been a cranky teenager, and I’ve been the over-controlling parent.
Funny thing is, when my story finally sorted itself into a clear (well, clearish) line for me to follow, it looked a lot like the story I was getting ready to tell from the beginning. Only better. Much. Better.
Ok, confession time: I threatened my novel. I looked it in the eye and said “Look you little punk, there are eleven more stories coming after you, and I can just throw you in the fireplace if you don’t work out. Shape up or get ready for the incinerator.”
Maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking. I don’t know.
All I do know is that the novel has decided to play nice again, and there are some changes to make. This means I had some backtracking and re-writing of a few key scenes to do. I generally avoid scene re-writes in the first draft, but it had to be done for me to move forward.
Now, it’s grown so rich and detailed I’m worried that this story can’t be completed within 50,000 words this month. If there is a worry to have, this is the best of them.
I have also found a favorite line:
“I don’t know why I hit him. It made sense to my fist, and when I’m in certain moods I don’t argue with my fist.”
Yeah, I like it.
That is all for now. We’ll be back to a more slept kind of blogging within a few days.
And until then, here is a beautifully lucid thought.