Yesterday was a disaster. See my bridge-burning rant, the purpose of which is to make me write a novel in 30 (now 29 )days, and thus inocculate myself against wanting to write a novel ever again. Then I can get back to reading the good stuff without thinking, “I wish I could do that!” Brutal but necessary, like an aversion program to stop smoking – you keep on smoking till you’re sick.
The problem is that I didn’t have a story, so I just rambled for 1,000 words before tossing the whole thing. Last night I dreamed of the beginning of a story, and that’s a lifeline. Better, perhaps, to not know where it’s going. And it has characters who aren’t me, though I will inevitably draw on my life history.
To the bank, haircut (booked yesterday), and then let’s see what’s possible.
Well, something is. Word count today: 1721. Average today and yesterday when I wrote nothing: 860. It’s a horror story. I won’t say anything else because if I talk it out I won’t be able to write it out.