Progress on the novel (yes I am still writing it) has become tortuously slow of late.
It’s a mite frustrating as I am now into the last phase of the plot. Just a matter of tying everything together. And at 170,000 words (and counting) I don’t think anyone can knock my dedication.
But finding time and energy to devote to it lately has proven to be monumentally difficult. The worst thing about this is that it makes me feel distant from the novel and then it’s doubly hard to get back into it again. It requires a huge effort to pick up all the piece and embrace the myriad strands once more.
And then yet more interruptions and delays... it soon feels too difficult to re-engage.
I’m being lazy and moany, I know.
Part of the problem is that I have an idea for a second novel and, human nature being what it is, I want the first one done and dusted so I can get on with the shiny new one.
Which feels a rather childish reaction.
I suppose I ought to try and see the positive. All these delays are ensuring that I don’t rush the ending – a crime committed by many a writer and of ineffably annoyance to any reader... cos you can always tell when a novel has been rushed. The conclusion is invariably shoddy, unbelievable and way too convenient... altogether very, very dissatisfying.
I guess I’ve just got to tell myself that the tortoise is always better then the hare and just knuckle down... Instead of distracting myself with constant displacement activities.
Like writing this blog...