Ground out another 5K on Apocalypse Pictures Presents. Magic Meter tells the tale:
Last week was yet another tough slog in a long series of tough slogs, but it got a little bit easier toward Sunday. It occurs to me that out of the many obstacles that stand in the way of a completed novel–family and work obligations, time with friends, unplanned schedule disruptions, good old fashioned laziness–the worst of them all, at least for me, is lack of belief. Whenever I start a new chapter or scene, especially if I’m introducing a new setting, I have to work awfully hard just to get myself to believe what I’m doing. If I can’t see the setting in sufficient detail, or if I’m not sure what a character’s going to do in a certain situation, I find myself kind of blocked. Once I have a good handle on where I’m going, though, the writing moves with surprising and even pleasant ease. These are the times when I actually enjoy the work, when I can disappear into the story, my fingers fly on the keys, and I start losing track of time. I’ve believed myself into it.
Those moments of belief have been mighty scarce in this draft–maybe because I’d started too soon, without adequate preparation.
I know several writers who will skim past those troublesome details, saving them for the rewrite so as not to lose momentum. I suppose I could try that, but it just feels too much like cheating to me. Besides, there might be something important in those skimmed bits, something absolutely crucial to the scene. I won’t know unless I look.
I dunno. Maybe it wouldn’t kill me to outline a little. Something to keep in mind when I consider my ever-evolving process. Remind me I said that when I start talking about my next novel, would ya? Thanks.
Your snippet for the week:
She focused on Eddie’s hate-filled face. He stared back at her, defiant to the end, making no attempt to beg for his life, to plead for mercy. Making it easy for her. “Oh, just do it, bitch.”
Susan held her breath. The trembling in her hands intensified, becoming so bad that if she fired now, she would likely miss, even at point-blank range. The harder she tried to steady herself, the worse the shaking became.
Santiago edged closer, keeping his weapon trained on Eddie. “Susan, what’s wrong?”
“Why me?” she said.
“What?”
“Why does it have to be me?”
“Because you’re the best shot out of all of us,” Terry said. “Come on, Susan. Finish it, so we can get out of here.”
“Yeah.” Her gaze locked on Eddie’s. She had no love for the man at all, not the faintest scintilla of compassion for him, no matter what he might have been through. And still she hesitated. “The best shot. That’s me. But what if I don’t want to be?”
Write Club update: A personalized rejection from Redstone, with some nice comments. Response time, a little over 60 days.
I’m out.
