I just finished (I say that loosely) a new draft of my novel.
I all but threw out the last draft and started over. The protagonist is the same, and her best friend—a sort of sidekick—remains. Other than that, the story morphed ahead several decades, and its focus became much smaller.
This writing process confounds me, yet I am in love with it. I spend so much time alone, mulling over words and phrases, wondering, “How would she really respond in this situation?”
Perhaps writing is a little like acting—we have to listen to our characters, really listen. It is so easy to miss something they say or misinterpret it, or—even more dire—avoid some truth that seems unbearable to look at.
In my last post, I wondered about the value of these posts. I don’t want to fill space just to fill space.
But I do want to write, and I do have something to say.
So I will muddle along, as I do with my characters, as I do in my life.
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