Thirteen days and 12,667 words in and I am recovering (barely) from a massive 2 day writer’s block. The kind that found me staring blankly at my laptop screen in an I-don’t-know-where-my-plot-is-going stupor. I’ve spent the weekend hiding under my duvet and scarfing copious amounts of chocolate in an attempt to forget that I still have 37,333 more words to write. In 17 days…
Because my novel is at the crucial point where it has to start coming together I think I panicked a little. In fact I’m still panicking, just a bit less. I’ve introduced all my main characters, built up suspense, added a mystery, an ex-boyfriend, a new boyfriend, a dodgy boss, a flashback or two, and an amazing peach cobbler.
I think I need to blow something up.
Or bring in the aliens.
Here is an excerpt for your viewing pleasure:
Good question. I’m just writing as it comes to me.
Right now Ava is on a train to somewhere. It is nighttime and there is a sense of foreboding. The train is late. It’s never late. She is tired, resigned, and wearing uncomfortable clothes.
She might be going to meet someone or deliver a package. She will likely find something unusual along the way which will plunge her into a world of mystery and chaos. Or she might meet the man of her dreams. However, I get the sense that her character is less about the lovey dovey and more about action and intrigue.
Slow and steady wins the race? Hope so.
She glanced up to see that there was a man sitting in the opposite row of seats. She was surprised that she hadn’t noticed him before. He smiled and she returned the pleasantry. He was tall, middle-aged but heading for a crisis. She could tell by the leather jacket and the gelled hair. Dirty blonde tresses, carefully spiked. The I-just-rolled-out-of-bed look which took half hour to perfect. His eyes were very blue and very clear – like a swimming pool that you can see to the bottom off. He was reading a book that she recognised. A corporate-world crime novel. She had begun reading it once but didn’t have the motivation to finish. It bored her terribly. She had a fleeting urge to lean over and ask him what he thought of the book, but she didn’t. He seemed perfectly approachable but she simply couldn’t muster the energy or presence of mind to strike up a conversation with a complete stranger. Not now. Not tonight.
Outside, light and shadows flickered across the window. Flashes of billboards and skyscrapers dissolved as quickly as they appeared. She rubbed her eyes, careful to avoid smudging her mascara. Her head hurt. A dull, clodding type of headache. One that thudded at the back of her neck and radiated upward to her temples. She closed her eyes and uncrossed her legs to stop them from falling asleep. They had started to tingle. She pressed her back into the seat and felt her dark curls tumble across her shoulders. She noticed that the cardigan was not only flimsy but it itched like hell. After tonight she would make sure it found its way to a charity shop where some other unsuspecting soul would be tempted by its crimson threads, conned into its prickly embrace. It gave her a grim sort of satisfaction that she could pass on a bit of her misery. Romantic notions like karma meant nothing to her. You lived the life you were dealt. She’d learned this the hard way.