Tag: writers are weird

Good news & bad

So it’s been 30 days! I made 18 blog posts!

That is slightly better than one every second day. No, I did not write 30 posts in 30 days, for which everyone is likely grateful, but I taught myself to write posts without caring too much about how good or interesting or coherent they are, and to write them in way less time than I used to, so for me the experiment has been a resounding success.

That’s the good news.

The bad news is, my main character blindsided me today with a solution to a problem I cheerfully gave her in book 4, all the while thinking “ah, this’ll make things interesting, I wonder how we’re going to handle this!” and now she is handling it and it hit me hard enough I had to take a big break to think it through. Sadly I can’t change the course of this one and I’m pretty cut up about it.

Happier news tomorrow hopefully. For now I’m gonna nurse this fledgling head-cold and watch bad TV with Mr Beard.

Makin’ stuff is hard

Last week’s wordcount suffered because I was prepping Heart of Flame for edits, but the manuscript went off to the editor (still feels weird to be able to say that) on Friday and this week has been much better for making pages. But it’s always hard.

Even when it’s easy and the words flow and you have bumper days, it’s hard emotionally. For me anyway. Pulling that much story out is hard; pulling and pulling and not getting anything is also hard.

Last week it was hard because I reached the halfway point of the book, and in my plot outline, it basically says “MYSTICAL STUFF HAPPENS HERE.” Not much of an outline, huh? But I know my characters and my process well enough now; I knew something would be happening by this point, and I knew it would be a result of everything that had gone before (which I had plotted, and y’know, this is the fifth book, so it’s kinda like there are four previous extremely-detailed plot outlines to feed into the current one.)

But nope, I didn’t know what it actually was. I just trusted that my world and my characters would produce something, because how can they not? And they did, because they’re my creepy-alternate-universe-not-actually-imaginary friends and they’re dependable like that. This is where I’m not writing the story, they are, I’m just trying not to get in the way.

Anyway, wordcount crawled until they got it sorted and then it sped back up again, and we’re over halfway, so life doesn’t suck. Not for me, anyway, but it does a little for them, and that is hard.

Moral of the story folks: don’t do art of the writing-kind unless you enjoy torturing yourself. Cuz it’s hard. It’s awesome, but you do have to like pain.

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