18 000 Words In
After months of 'not feeling it' creatively, it's really great to be back at the desk (or the kitchen table), working on a project.
It's great to be reserving more books than I could possible read over three weeks from two different libraries, in order to immerse myself fully in the dialect of the era I am writing about.
It's great to feel my fingers flying along the keyboard, retyping familiar words. It's even better when they go off script, adding or replacing words which are defunct or have no place.
It's great to be showing my work to beta readers, getting feedback-- though always jarring to hear that the things I thought I'd done well were not the parts that stood out, and things I'd overlooked were the parts that shone. Writing is bizarre.
It's great to be drinking cups of tea. It's even great to be getting so caught up in writing that I forget said cup of tea, only to take a tepid sip an hour or two later.
It's great to want to rush home from wherever I am of a night and sit down at my desk (or kitchen table).
I am 18 000 words in, and this is the first night since I got the edits back that I have wondered-- am I making this book better, or am I making it worse?
The only way out is through.
Back to the desk. Or kitchen table. Or wherever.
It's great to be reserving more books than I could possible read over three weeks from two different libraries, in order to immerse myself fully in the dialect of the era I am writing about.
It's great to feel my fingers flying along the keyboard, retyping familiar words. It's even better when they go off script, adding or replacing words which are defunct or have no place.
It's great to be showing my work to beta readers, getting feedback-- though always jarring to hear that the things I thought I'd done well were not the parts that stood out, and things I'd overlooked were the parts that shone. Writing is bizarre.
It's great to be drinking cups of tea. It's even great to be getting so caught up in writing that I forget said cup of tea, only to take a tepid sip an hour or two later.
It's great to want to rush home from wherever I am of a night and sit down at my desk (or kitchen table).
I am 18 000 words in, and this is the first night since I got the edits back that I have wondered-- am I making this book better, or am I making it worse?
The only way out is through.
Back to the desk. Or kitchen table. Or wherever.
