Friday, December 6, 2013
The Myth of December
It's one day.
I think the longer hours of dark cause me to sit with myself and think more. Not that I think less in the spring, summer and fall. I simply have no excuse to go out much in the winter. Too cold. Whereas inside, I can write about summer (which I am, come to think of it) in my book. I'll have to fess up that I write sporadically. Every week, for sure, but not from 5a-9a every single day, or until I've written 1,000 words or 5 pages, or whatever the going quota might be per your favorite mentor. I'm shamelessly all over the place. I've tried to change my habits, but so far, no luck. I keep telling myself, 'When I make money at it, then I'll write like a professional.' But then someone reminds me of the chicken-and-egg scenario. To make writing into a living, I have to live like a professional writer right now.
I do generally end the week with five good pages. This takes me about 4 hours of drafting and a few hours of editing and redrafting. Then I move on. I'm near the end, so close, to the second book in my Musketeer series. I'm actually enjoying writing the end because I know exactly where the story is headed and once I type the end, I live at least three days in utter euphoria.
What a great Christmas present to myself.
Then the revising starts. The real work begins. A draft is structure, a house with a skin on it, no windows or trim work or carpet. It's halfway. I don't mind. I squat in my unfinished work for a while, covering myself with the newspaper of my story. It makes a nice blanket this time of year.