This isn’t the first book I’ve written. Granted I haven’t published anything else yet, but I’ve done enough writing to know how large the gab is between the first draft and the final draft. If 10k of the 45k words I’ve already written appear in the final draft I’d be surprized. Even if I haven’t written the ending yet, I can see it in my head. And now I’m starting to wonder if that’s really the story I want to tell.
It’s not that I don’t like what I’ve written, or where it’s going. I like my characters a lot, and think this story has a lot of potential. I’m just more willing to take time to reflect and read other things and contemplate how I want this to look in a final draft. The mad rush to finish a first draft does feel all that important. What is the point of writing a first draft in two months if I know I’m gonna have to revise it for at least six more months. Maybe I should just take a breath and write the best story I can.
So that’s what I’m doing. I’m reflecting. I’m reading. I’m writing. I’m living. But I’m not rushing.
Joke of the Day
A writer comes home to a burned down house. His sobbing and slightly-singed wife is standing outside. “What happened, honey?” the man asks.
“Oh, John, it was terrible,” she weeps. “I was cooking, the phone rang. It was your agent. Because I was on the phone, I didn’t notice the stove was on fire. It went up in second. Everything is gone. I nearly didn’t make it out of the house. Poor Fluffy is--”
“Wait, wait. Back up a minute,” The man says. “My agent called?”