I can never tell if it’s ambition, self-belief, or some other factor that drives me to write to the lengths that I do. As much as I pay heed to the idea that there are no new stories, that things have been done before or that what we do as writers is only regurgitating the stuff of life into a form easier to get through, I know the reality of where I want to take it is somewhere else.
I’ve actually been working on my novel. This will be a surprise to some. The fact that this could possibly be a surprise to people that read this blog that don’t know me is two-fold: a writer working on their novel shouldn’t be a surprise, and it being a potential surprise is in itself a possible surprise.
I don’t think I’ve had a blog that hasn’t fallen off into inactivity at some point or another, and this is probably the worst that’s hit Fictioner’s Net since I began. While I hope to get back into a routine over the next few weeks, I thought I’d at least address what’s been happening.
It’s right there. A number that makes me want to punch the air with elation.
Overall, it’s not a big improvement. I’m not even halfway done with the rewrite, but it is continuing. Rewrites are strange.
Sometimes it’s the name.
Last post had me complaining, talking about self-doubt, and general obstacles encountered with the rewrite of this strange beast of a novel I’m working on.