Today was a great day to be a writer. In a span of just an hour and a half I flew through over two thousand words.
My novel now sits at one hundred and sixty six pages, Microsoft Word style, and I’m coming up to the halfway done mark. This is such a cool feeling; even though I’m only hashing my way through the first draft, I can see my characters coming to life and the little plot strings tying themselves together in a pretty little bow. Now that is the definition of satisfaction.
But the emotional trauma I’m causing myself… I don’t know if I like that so much. Stirring up trouble in my little fictional world is hurting me just as much as it’s hurting the people in it, and I’m the only one who knows how it’s going to turn out, for Pete’s sake. I made a whole lot of progress on a whole lot of turmoil… and yet I hate angsty situations. I think they’re silly, and in a world filled with novels like Twilight, I try to keep it to a minimum. Plot can be driven forward without hormone-laced teen angst. But when THE RIGHT KIND of angst (last time I’ll use that word, I promise) is necessary (no hormones required), and you’re forced to fly your way through it like a freight train chugging downhill , you come out on the other end looking like you just escaped from Azkaban. (Sorry, Sirius.) I’m a little wounded.
I think I’ll start a support clinic for writers affected negatively by their stories.
I’d make a killing.