One page per hour? Seriously?
You’d think I’d know it by this point. Writing is hard.
The research was fun. The character profiles were illuminating. Even the sketchy plot outline proved to be helpful. But when it comes down to actual writing, which I do most nights, it’s not easy at all.
I worry that I’m rushing, trying too hard to meet the writing schedule I set. When I get home from work, I just want to relax, but I tell myself I need to write – even one page is better than nothing, and gets me closer to my goal.
It would be one thing if I were writing literary fiction – but I’m not. I’m no Hemingway or Tolstoy or Styron or even King. I’m just trying to write an entertaining mystery, the type of book with a clearly defined form, a specific set of rules.
Honestly, you’d think it would be easier than this.
But I am on page 75.
I’ll revise and rewrite, of course, but I guess that’s something. One-quarter of the way there…
(Oh, and by the way, for anyone who follows this blog regularly, I did write that sex scene. Cue the windchimes!)
