Crap, crap, crap. That’s what it is. I’m just… writing. (I can’t even come up with words for this blog; how am I supposed to write a novel?) It’s nothing. It’s irrelevant descriptions, throwaway scenes I don’t plan to make any further references to. Just any excuse for words. And I’m still way behind.
The problem is compounded by the fact that I’ve been super depressed lately, so that’s informing everything in the book. The main character is becoming me–even more I than intended him to be–just in another reality. I’m learning that my problem isn’t my reality; it’s me.
I’m going to keep trying, but I doubt I’ll make it. (Ha! Am I talking about noveling or life?)
Good thing none of you decided to make any wagers with me.