Puffed myself up quite alarmingly, as a matter of fact. I’m surprised I didn’t pop.
Despite how I may come across in these daily blogs of mine, I am spectacularly unsure of myself as a writer at most times…. Perhaps, I need to correct that? I am unsure of myself as a professionally successful writer. Yes, that’s better.
Oh, I know I can spin a yarn. Even plucking a set of words out of the dictionary and plopping them effectively in print is a “thing” I can do pretty darn well. (Years, and years, and years of trial and error will do that to even the clumsiest word-oaf.)
However, planning out and writing a novel carefully, abiding by a much worried upon outline, relying on the story to naturally give me the word count that is needed, is new for me.
In my previous 50k novels, I rarely had more than 2 months to write them. While a lot of very good writers can crank out a brilliant 2k of words a day, I cannot. At all. So I was constantly feeling rushed, with the “Must reach 50k!” mantra always forefront in my mind.
With The Hushing Days, I have finally reached a place in the creative process where I can trust the story to give me the length the publishers want. I know, really know, if I follow the outline and write each scene to its most powerful the word count will naturally come.
I had never been to that place before. Just realized I was there yesterday. Hence the puff.
I’m going to enjoy this momentary gloat. Might even wriggle around it naked for a while.
Writers, bask in the momentary gloats wherever you may find them. They are magical places to be.