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I am perpetually behind on book reviews. I first though to record them for the those 50 books/15000 pages in a year challenges, but I don't review every book I read, and so those numbers are entirely inaccurate. I easily read twice that in a year, but I don't review it all. I don't review books I've already reviewed, even though I do reread books fairly often—especially my favorites, especially YA series. I don't review a lot of books just because I never get around to it. I don't review some books because they end up on my to-review stack for so long that I forget the details of what's worth saying in a review. Currently, my to-review pile is about ten books long, assuming I haven't forgotten a few. There's some guilt to that—because some of these are brilliant books that I would definitely encourage others to read (Stardust, Snow Crash, The Fountainhead). Others, not so much (The Other Boleyn Girl, The Witching Hour), but in a way those reviews are equally useful—and rather as much fun to write. But book reviews don't come easily, and they do take time, and I seem to have so little of that, lately. Strange, I know, what with my lack of work and school, but I'm always busy and rarely bored. There are always more books—to read, and as of now, to write.
Speaking of.
So, the other day, before bed, I figured out how my novel ends. To be more specific, just after I turned out the light for bed, I thought of the ever-important "what happens next," and when I turned back on the light and grabbed paper to force myself to write it down before I slept on it and forgot, I wrote one note, and then another, and then the next, until I had just outlined the rest of the novel. The end of it is still choppy, but I don't care. I know what happens, now, in the universal and complete sense. I know what decisions the protagonist makes. I know why. And I know the circumstances under which everything gets worked out. I know how to make that ending feel climactic, where the action comes from.
I am, simply said, thrilled.
The one problem is that now that I know the rest, there is nothing to stop me from writing it all save for exhaustion and a sore hand. There are no stopping points. Scenes end, but I always know the next scene, and so I itch to write that one as well, and the next, and the next. It's exhausting. I feel like the book has me between its teeth and refuses to let go. When I try to escape, it shakes me. The fact that I feel a bit like poo—depression, ear problems, back pain, fatigue—doesn't help, either. But what matters, what really matters, is that I know how this book ends. And soon, I'll have it all written down. That's pretty cool.
I expect to finish the draft in two to three weeks.
Wordcount: 118,000+ typed, 3,300 handwritten.
Previous Accomplishments: Figuring out how the book ends. Plus: introducing some energy and immediacy to the plot, enjoying the male characters (no, not like that).
Upcoming Challenges: Writing it all down and typing it all up without exhausting myself.
Currently Reading: Maledicte, Lane Robins; A Celtic Miscellany, Penguin Classics.
Speaking of.
So, the other day, before bed, I figured out how my novel ends. To be more specific, just after I turned out the light for bed, I thought of the ever-important "what happens next," and when I turned back on the light and grabbed paper to force myself to write it down before I slept on it and forgot, I wrote one note, and then another, and then the next, until I had just outlined the rest of the novel. The end of it is still choppy, but I don't care. I know what happens, now, in the universal and complete sense. I know what decisions the protagonist makes. I know why. And I know the circumstances under which everything gets worked out. I know how to make that ending feel climactic, where the action comes from.
I am, simply said, thrilled.
The one problem is that now that I know the rest, there is nothing to stop me from writing it all save for exhaustion and a sore hand. There are no stopping points. Scenes end, but I always know the next scene, and so I itch to write that one as well, and the next, and the next. It's exhausting. I feel like the book has me between its teeth and refuses to let go. When I try to escape, it shakes me. The fact that I feel a bit like poo—depression, ear problems, back pain, fatigue—doesn't help, either. But what matters, what really matters, is that I know how this book ends. And soon, I'll have it all written down. That's pretty cool.
I expect to finish the draft in two to three weeks.
Wordcount: 118,000+ typed, 3,300 handwritten.
Previous Accomplishments: Figuring out how the book ends. Plus: introducing some energy and immediacy to the plot, enjoying the male characters (no, not like that).
Upcoming Challenges: Writing it all down and typing it all up without exhausting myself.
Currently Reading: Maledicte, Lane Robins; A Celtic Miscellany, Penguin Classics.
