argh, and navel gazing
So, in the last few days I've managed to write a total of 1,000 words. Oh man. At least I crossed the 21,000 line.
Writing is like torture this week. and not the good kind. It might have something to do with the fact that my novel refuses to *not* be somewhat (read: undeniably) about me. I don't want it to be this way, but things just keep popping out, so I've gone with it, figuring that I must need to write about some of these events, even if tangentially. While perhaps therapeutic (?) this is going to guarantee that I never let anyone read the majority of said novel, and is making it excruciating in some instances to write (and I suspect, immensely boring to anyone not me), as well as dredging up free floating anger. Rawr.
So tonight I'm going to give in, stop pretending there's a plot for one night and just free-write about all of that. Maybe something remotely related to the storyline will emerge.
ETA: Well, I"ve got the Firefly soundtrack on, which has calmed me somewhat. I've made it to 22,500 words, mostly by bathering on randomly. It won't add anything to the meat of the novel, but at least I've gotten some personal angst out of the way, and upped my wordcount.
I realize I need to pay more attention to how novels are actually constructed. It's weird that I've been reading obsessively (see previous meme post) practically since birth and I have no idea how to go about constructing a coherant story, let alone actually write it in a compelling way.
Sorry about the whining.
Writing is like torture this week. and not the good kind. It might have something to do with the fact that my novel refuses to *not* be somewhat (read: undeniably) about me. I don't want it to be this way, but things just keep popping out, so I've gone with it, figuring that I must need to write about some of these events, even if tangentially. While perhaps therapeutic (?) this is going to guarantee that I never let anyone read the majority of said novel, and is making it excruciating in some instances to write (and I suspect, immensely boring to anyone not me), as well as dredging up free floating anger. Rawr.
So tonight I'm going to give in, stop pretending there's a plot for one night and just free-write about all of that. Maybe something remotely related to the storyline will emerge.
ETA: Well, I"ve got the Firefly soundtrack on, which has calmed me somewhat. I've made it to 22,500 words, mostly by bathering on randomly. It won't add anything to the meat of the novel, but at least I've gotten some personal angst out of the way, and upped my wordcount.
I realize I need to pay more attention to how novels are actually constructed. It's weird that I've been reading obsessively (see previous meme post) practically since birth and I have no idea how to go about constructing a coherant story, let alone actually write it in a compelling way.
Sorry about the whining.