I hit my deadline. 50k words in less than a month. I kept plugging along until I hit it.
And now, at 110+ words, I'm done.
I'm rewriting it all over again.
This novel I wrote in November is a shell of what I had hoped to write. It is more rushed and definitely not as dark as I had originally hoped. It was not the psychologically eating of my soul as I had anticipated. I did not mourn the situations or feel the hopeful but rabid butterflies in the pit of my stomach. Sure, it started out that way. The ideas always start out that way. But it was not the rough world that I had hoped to convey. And I was too nice. The vulgarity was limited because of my expected audience. The big "Fuck You" messages were watered down. And deep down, my characters were weak. They did not have the drive. They were too wishy-washy to commit. I love my characters. But it all somehow came unraveled.
This was not the novel I had committed to writing.
So, I start from scratch. I grab a handful of my characters, put them in fresh new clothes and give them life again. My focus needs to be more pin-pointed on them and not the outside world around me. They need to experience life, not merely live day-to-day. So, I'm starting it with a different spin. I'm snapping down more of my real life, casting out the maps and charts, plans and blogs. These characters are not me. But I have the experience. These situations are not mine. But what I have experienced can only heighten the reality of them. Enough ground work and symbolism. Enough trying to make everyone happy. This story is destined for greatness...I just lost that in the process of its previous incarnation. It's not Misfits but it revolves around similar situations. It will be dark. I will not hold back. You should never mess with an author.
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