I am absolutely mortified by the quality of work that I am producing. It resembles more an outline of events than it does a coherent story.
I'm not sure if I'm the best story teller around, but the only little thing that keeps me going is that I'm pretty sure I have a good plot. If it'll stand tall in front of all those other books out there, I don't know, but I like it. And if the writer likes it, well... right now, that's the only factor, isn't it?
It's been a morning of self-criticism and being too hard on myself. Last night, I was walking home thinking of the next two scenes I want to write-- one of them will be in the middle of the novel, when the readers are going to get a bit of a shock. A character they've grown to love and know so much about, they'll discover, is dead. I didn't really anticipate this when I thought up the plot of the book. It just suddenly came to me as I was walking down the road.
Is this what they mean by the book taking on a life of its own? I haven't written 2,000 words yet and the darn thing is going off on tangents already. Not that I'm complaining. It's a great twist.
I was so excited about it, in fact, that I thought I'd write it as soon as I got home. I kicked off my shoes, got into bed with my laptop, and thought I'd nap for about half an hour before I started, seeing as how I was so exhausted.
I woke up at 5 a.m this morning.
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