So when I should be sprinting toward the finish line on the first draft of Prodigal, I’m instead dragging my feet. I’m not sure exactly why, but I’m really dreading the completion of the novel. Maybe I’m subconsciously fighting against the publication process? Who knows?
I really am down to the wire, pushing my characters to (and in some cases past) their limits. It’s interesting to see a character I’ve considered secondary all the way through the novel suddenly reach her breaking point. For about 80,000 words she’s been an inert object — letting the actions of others affect what she does. Now, to save her own life (and possibly the life of the main character) she’s going to have to choose how to act.
Fun, but frustrating. When you get it wrong, it sucks. And let me tell you, even in a first draft you can tell when you’re getting it wrong.
Another bit of frustration: I know what the next novel is going to be about. Already. It lit in my head like a mushroom cloud going off, and it’s got a chance to be very good — very “mainstream literary.” And it’s a good enough premise that I’m not sure I’m up to the task of writing it. Someone with more talent than me should take a whack at this one. And yet I’m the one. Scary.
The worst part of that is I want to leap headlong into the new idea. It’s really captivated my imagination. But I’ve really got to put my head down and plow ahead to finish Prodigal first.