I have no idea what’s up with me in the last week or so, but I’ve been a writing fiend.

Or at least that’s how it feels. In the five days since my last post, I’ve written 3,500 words, or an average of 700 a day. Two of those days were 1,000+ days. 1,000 words is huge for me. Huge.

Mind you, I have no idea how good any of this is and I won’t until I get to the end, let it all rest for a bit, and then come back to it with fresh eyes. I’m not very worried about the overall structure — I think that’s solid. It’ll be the language, and the hinky details — I already know I contradict myself about a key element of Narthé’s perceptions in a particular scene. Either he senses something or he doesn’t, not both in one short series of exchanges. (And, no, nothing in him changes during that scene, so that’s not why. It’s just your basic authorial confusion.)

Till then, I’ll keep repeating my mantra when I’m tempted to stop and try to perfect things: “Fix it later, keep moving now.”


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