I’m way behind where I hoped to be in my novel by this time, but way ahead of the official word count. If I can break out of the lethargy that’s been dragging me down, I’ll hit 40k today. But I thought I’d be at 50k and moving ahead. Instead, an old bogey man has popped up out of nowhere to plague me. I have a story I really like, and that I hope to turn into a finished novel. I know where I’m going with it, and even found the ending that was hiding from me for a long time.
I planned this one out the same way I did last year’s, but this time, all that planning has become a problem, one that I’d hoped I’d conquered. Because I’ve already thought it through so thoroughly, it’s boring as hell to write it down. Some people call it overthinking, but I’m not a spontaneous writer, and my imagination needs time to simmer on the back of the stove. So I’m between a rock and a hard place, caught between the work that was necessary for the novel to come to life at all, and the ennui that couldn’t care less.