![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Nov. 20th, 2011 07:27 pm26,500 on Nano. A little bit behind, but I'm feeling fine about it.
It's weird. It started out being this totally self-indulgent thing. Crammed full of all the minutiae of daily life that I love, pages and pages of drunken dinner parties full of snark and filthy conversation, an accounting mystery, and a mostly empty library, the last of its books having having hilariously wretched, proto-goth titles. So gloriously self-indulgent. I snicker while writing it.
As it is, it will likely never see the light of day. To revise it would be a thorough gutting. I doubt 80% of it would survive-- too much noodling and backstory. My main characters have only just begun flirting, and it was the kind of flirting which sets back a romance by fifty or so pages. No one wants 30 pages of Opera noodling before the plot finally waltzes in. No one.
What intrigues me, is how much fun I'm having writing it. I can pound out 700 words in 45 minutes. Terrible, non-descriptive, to-be ridden and "there was" studded sentences. The dialogue, as usual, is the only thing saving this work, and even it is shamefully silted and clunky. Normally, this much terrible would shame me into stopping and give me writers' block like whoa. Now, only the thought of someone else reading it shames me. I can pound out terrible words and be okay with typing (DECEMBER ISSUE) afterwords-- meaning I can gut and cut and angst come December.
EXCEPT, oh the manic-tempered except, by clearing out all my darlings, I have been a plot-creating racehorse. The plots I have been coming up with. I have a whole notebook full of ideas for my next project. I feel like I just cleaned out my closet and forced myself to give away a ton of beloved clothes. Now I'm staring a rack of Whole New Possibilites.
GO TEAM ME.
It's weird. It started out being this totally self-indulgent thing. Crammed full of all the minutiae of daily life that I love, pages and pages of drunken dinner parties full of snark and filthy conversation, an accounting mystery, and a mostly empty library, the last of its books having having hilariously wretched, proto-goth titles. So gloriously self-indulgent. I snicker while writing it.
As it is, it will likely never see the light of day. To revise it would be a thorough gutting. I doubt 80% of it would survive-- too much noodling and backstory. My main characters have only just begun flirting, and it was the kind of flirting which sets back a romance by fifty or so pages. No one wants 30 pages of Opera noodling before the plot finally waltzes in. No one.
What intrigues me, is how much fun I'm having writing it. I can pound out 700 words in 45 minutes. Terrible, non-descriptive, to-be ridden and "there was" studded sentences. The dialogue, as usual, is the only thing saving this work, and even it is shamefully silted and clunky. Normally, this much terrible would shame me into stopping and give me writers' block like whoa. Now, only the thought of someone else reading it shames me. I can pound out terrible words and be okay with typing (DECEMBER ISSUE) afterwords-- meaning I can gut and cut and angst come December.
EXCEPT, oh the manic-tempered except, by clearing out all my darlings, I have been a plot-creating racehorse. The plots I have been coming up with. I have a whole notebook full of ideas for my next project. I feel like I just cleaned out my closet and forced myself to give away a ton of beloved clothes. Now I'm staring a rack of Whole New Possibilites.
GO TEAM ME.
