I just spent two hours with my manuscript and a pink pen, marking inconsistencies and designating entire scenes for the writerly equivalent of the cutting room floor.
I made it! That's really the overall feeling that comes out of this year's effort--I made it. How did I manage this with a full-time job? I know I've done it, repeatedly. But this year it was harder than it's been in a while. I lost a couple of evenings doing things that were not writing, and that days that I did write were under 1,000 words for a long stretch. One day, I only wrote 93 words. But I persisted, had a couple of high-volume days, and hit 50,000 a few days before the 30th. The story is nowhere near complete--my outline is 26 chapters, plus epilogue, and I left off at the start of chapter 19. My master plan is to return to Christophina's Garden , create a new outline for what's been written and what has yet to be written, and then finish the thing! After that, I'll finish up Christophina's Moon and then work on revising all three books simultaneously to sift out the continuity errors. If I'm clever enough, I may be able to come up with
Wordcount (final): 52,176 First line of the day: She’s asking so she can cash in on the hype while it’s still hyping. Last line of the day: I look at the texture I’m working on, put Lenny in my pocket and go to the guest house. Bad summary: Young woman has phone conversation with art dealer. Makes sense in context: I feel stupid the moment I ask that question.
One of the common myths that stands between people and completed manuscripts is the myth of 'time.' I'm sure you've heard it. "If I just had the time , I'd be able to Write My Novel." But our time is a limited resource, consumed by forty-hour-a-week jobs with hour commutes each way and all the other obligations of the business of living. If only, one sighs, one could have time to oneself, time to write without all those pesky distractions, then one could finally write that novel that one has been promising oneself that one would, one day. One is, of course, bullshitting oneself. The beautiful thing that NaNoWriMo did for me--and, I'm sure for many others--is thoroughly debunk that myth. The raw material for the novel I'm trying to hammer into a publishable form was drafted in the space of two separate months of do-or-die typing (supplemented with some scribbling to allow me to keep the plot on track) while still holding down a job and everyt
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