I don’t usually post progress reports on my work, because it tends to be too depressing. (Dear LiveJournal: I was going to write tonight, but then “The Sarah Connor Chronicles” came on and I forgot. Will do better tomorrow, since I always feel more writery on Tuesdays. Sincerely, A Damn Liar.)
But today I passed the 92K mark on the sequel to Blood of Ambrose. Even if not all those words are keepers, I’m starting to feel more confident about making my deadline, in spite of holidays and sweeps weeks and people being wrong on the internet (some of them me) and grading storms and real life and all the other deadly gleaming protuberances along the way.
The Sophomore Shakes (which sounds like a campus malt shop, or maybe a cover group for the Folksmen, but is really anxiety about something even less amusing) have struck me occasionally. A couple times I got out of them by muttering lines from the White Stripes’ “Little Room,” so I offer it here in the hopes that it might help fellow sufferers feeling a little lost in the bigger room. Anyway, it’s bound to be more entertaining than my word-count.
Damn you! I was feeling special when I reached 22K on my latest book. Now I feel so puny 🙁
Most of those words are repetitions of “and then he” though.
You raise a good point. Each of my 22,000 words are completely unique.
I’m going minimalist this time, like a modern opera, but without all that pesky music. If people say it’s pointless, I’ll tell them that’s the point! They won’t see that one coming.
That’s because they’ll already be facing the other way, exiting the opera house!
I’m reminded of a skit from Prairie Home Companion. I forget the name of GK’s character, but he’s an impoverished artist/playwright/etc. In one episode, one of his plays is finally being produced, but he rants about the director’s latest revision. She’s taken out the 45 minutes of a dark, empty, silent stage in the third act. “It’s important because it symbolizes…”
Creative genius is rarely appreciated in it’s time. Someday, James. Someday.
At least your honest with yourself about not being honest with yourself. That oughta count for something.
Once or twice a year I’ll reach a point of almost starting to edit one of my novels– Oo, shiny short story!
–Jeff Stehman
Unless I’m really more honest with myself than I’m pretending, in which case I’m… Just confused, I guess.