A few years back I wrote a novel in four months--twenty pages a day, about 5000 words, six days a week. I ate, slept, lived, breathed, dreamed these guys. When it was over, I was sorry, though it was harrowing. Someone told me it was an artistic fugue (or insanity) that drove me. I think I channelled something. Whatever, I still like the book.
But most days I plug along, thinking just finish this damn scene, or write until you have to pick the kid up, or NO YOU DON'T NEED CHOCOLATE. Like any job, no matter how joyous, writing is all about applying yourself. Today I wrote 1226 words, and every one of them felt like a blood draw where the nurse couldn't find the vein.
But I told myself 1000 words today on the WOP and I beat it, so...
So, I'm a thousand words closer to finishing Exiled. BFD.
My good sense is arguing with my emotion. I like the story. I like Ereq and his well defined pecs and his scarred back. I like watching Ashetan turn from an Exiled brat to an Exiled king.
But will anyone else like it? I guess I'm not so over all that rejection from the last round of agents. Not like I've sent out the next batch of letters. I have a stack of addresses, and I've even got some smaller press publishers to try after that (I'm not fucking with the slush piles at the larger presses.) But some of that doubt stems from a possible rewrite for Hinterland. A friend told me "You can't write for the market." I think, Why the hell not?
But good sense is intervening again. I think I'll send it out as is, and if no one picks it up I'll do the significant rewrites I've thought of and try it again under another title. Meanwhile, I'm still trying to balance my four projects.