So This Novel I’m Writing?

The one that’s consumed me all month? The one whose pages I covered in red pen this morning, slashing lines and scribbling details and hammering new paragraphs onto the backs of the paper then crossing them out?

It’s going well, thank you.

No, seriously. I got the 50 pages I needed to have a decent-sized partial. (As of this morning we are at 56 pages. By tomorrow that may become 55 because writing backwards is my specialty.) I wrote to the end of the chapters—there’s now a total of four. I can give them to my agent (OMG!) (it may take me months to stop doing that, be warned) whenever I’m ready… he’s patient. Which is good, because I want to play around with them more. The red pen has more ink and I should at least make use of it.

Someone saw me today—hair sticking out crooked, eyes glassy, rambling about the six hours I spent Sunday rewriting page 1—and said maybe I should take a break. You know, for a couple days. You know, like sane people do.

If she is reading: I may not be able to do that tomorrow morning, sorry!

I’m just… in the zone. At this point, I could keep writing and just write the whole first draft by the end of June. I might collapse afterward and lose permanent use of my two main typing fingers, and maybe all my hair would fall out, but I’d feel really, really satisfied with the book, you know?

Don’t worry—I’m chilling out. No stress. All is good; no interventions needed.

Writing the book is waaaaay more fun than emailing people the book to read and then waiting to see if they like it. If I keep writing it, I’ll never know the truth. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop, hmm?

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