Greetings, writers—
Two days after the election, I began a new novel. Let’s call it Book B. This was a ridiculous thing to do because I’ve been trying to write a different novel—Book A—for over two years now. I keep getting sidetracked by cowriting gigs1, mostly, and life, sometimes, but Book A is close to my heart and I have a lot to say about its plot and people and themes, and I’m either going to finish it or die of shame; these are the only two options. But somehow on November 7, I sat down and started typing something else entirely.
I can’t explain it other than I simply wanted to see what happened if I tried to write a thing with no expectations and no baggage (by which I mean no Word files full of notes/ideas/edits), with nothing but a title and two characters who didn’t even have names. And now I’ll probably jinx it by saying that working on it has been 85% delightful, with ideas and events and characters appearing when they were needed as if someone besides me had summoned them. This abnormal, wonderful magic lasted until what I can tell is the end of the first act (not that I normally think in those terms, but in this case it seems obvious), c. 22,000 words, which is a lot to write in three and a half weeks, especially during No-School November2.
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