So here’s what happens when I write a book.
The first 100 pages try to kill me. No, really. This is where the set-up/world-building/introductions/important information you don’t want to read like information goes, and I spend a LONG TIME making it right.
The second 100 pages, strangely, ALSO TRY TO KILL ME. This is where I suffer from flabby middle syndrome, which I obsess over until I do lots of book crunches and tweaking and rearranging and angsting and panicking and ARGH IT SUCKS-ing and eventually give myself a tummy ache.
The third 100 pages (my books are generally 300 pages), not surprisingly ALSO TRY TO KILL ME. But it’s because I’m like YES GO FIGHT WIN ROCK ARGH WHERE IS THAT PLOT TWIST PLEASE WORK DID IT WORK OH GOD IS IT WORKING–*nudges words*–IT WORKED! I think…
So, the theme here is that my book harbors homicidal tendencies toward me, and I harbor bookicidal tendencies toward it.
And then on top of this, there’s THE INTERNET.
I write a little. I go on Twitter. Twitter either:
a. makes me smile and I waste hours in the candyland-esque fun. Which then results in stress because I wasn’t writing.
b. makes me frustrated and I spend hours unable to write due to angst.
I check Facebook. Repeat. I check industry sites. Repeat.
You get the idea.
So I go all hermit out of a sense of self-preservation. To guard against industry-induced angst, internet-induced distraction, and a dire need to SURVIVE my first draft so I can turn around and find the strength to edit it.
So. Hermit-ing it up. Now.
Leave love. Or cookies. Or both.