So, it turns out this trying to write a novel in thirty days thing? Is kind of hard.
You have to write every single day, whether you feel like it or not. Whether the story’s flowing or not. Whether you’d rather stick hot pokers under your fingernails or not.
But it’s going pretty well, for the most part. I have more than 18000 words—and 56 pages—so far, which is more than I’ve ever written in my life.
My characters are alive, and rambling around in my head.
The story seems to have taken on a life of its own.
And I have a vague idea of where I’m going.
But I’m pretty sure at least 50 percent of what I’m writing is pure crap.
However, despite a crisis of confidence yesterday, I’m almost positive I’m going to be able to pull this off (knock on any hard wooden surface you have handy).
I might be a third-rate novelist without a prayer of being published, but a novelist I (almost) am.