I’ve reached the quarter point in my latest novel.
I had hoped to be further along, but life and the day job and that sense of bleh keep getting in the way.
My critique partner says it’s the best thing I’ve ever written.
Part of me was like Yay!
But the other part of me was like shouldn’t the current work in progress always be the greatest thing an author has written? Shouldn’t I always be looking to improve my storytelling abilities?
But here in the real world, that isn’t always the case. Sometimes the things I learn, set me back not take me forward.
Writing is weird.
And hard. This book is hard to write because of the emotions I need to access to ‘bleed’ onto the page. After 50 works written, I thought it would get easier. It hasn’t, maybe because I know all the things I did wrong when I first started.
Ah well. I didn’t start writing because it was easy. Perversely, I write because it is hard because it challenges the little gray cells. Sometimes I just wish it was easier. Ah well, it’ll be worth it.
Until next time.