On Writing A Novel
I don't often write about the novel on which I am currently working, but a recent plot re-structure/heavy planning session has brought home exactly how much work is left to do on the damn thing.
There are a lot of words left to write. I knew this already, of course, but now I've finally finished a proper, conclusive outline (after writing over half of the first draft), I've got an idea of how much of a lot it actually is. It's a lot.
I am aware, of course, that I probably should have planned better ahead of time, and given myself a better idea of what I was letting myself in for. I'd written a few short stories and a couple of novelettes, and figured that this made me more than ready to take on a full-blown novel. However, I think if me-of-nine-months-ago realised exactly how much work it was going to take to get this thing done, I'd probably have given up before even starting. The projected final word count is that daunting.
The advantage, or disadvantage depending on how you choose to look at it, of only realising the size of the project half way through is that I've already got way too much of it written to give up on the bastard now. The amount of time I've spent on it is pretty enormous, and to stop now would be to write off a good part of the last nine months of my life.
So I'm going to finish it. Having an actual end in sight, however dauntingly far-off, is somewhat liberating. So I'll keep hacking away at it until I have a finished manuscript. And if it's still not done by the end of this year, then I'm going to become a hermit, locked away with my computer, for the duration of the time it takes to finish it.
In conclusion; I'm going to finish this bastard novel if it kills me. Look for it in a store near you sometime
