A few weeks ago, I stopped working on The King’s Son. I had been rewriting the third draft for close to a year and had hoped to get it done in the next couple of months, but the words became too difficult to get out. Sometimes I would sit for five hours and produce nothing more than a page or two – a few times only a paragraph or two. It was painful and unenjoyable, and I couldn’t do it anymore. Continue reading
I woke up feeling miserable today. Honestly. Utterly and hopelessly miserable.
I kept thinking about my story and how much more work on it lay before me. In addition to taking notes in a notebook, I printed off my manuscript and have been writing on that. It’s just note after note after note.
I see where characters need to be developed, conversations expanded. The pace needs to be slowed in places. And hurried up in others.
It’s a lot.
But I also got to thinking about my life. And how, this morning anyway, I felt as though I haven’t done much with it. Continue reading