to write for seven days

Sunday, January 2 ~ 6,000 words
[9pm-1am]

Monday, January 3 ~ 11,500 words
[write 10am-1pm, work 130pm-930pm, write 10pm-1am]

Tuesday, January 4 ~ 18,000 words
[write 10am-1pm, work 130pm-930pm, write 10pm-1am]

Wednesday, January 5 ~ 30,000 words
[write 3am-6am, sleep 7am-8am, write 9am-1pm, work 130pm-930pm, write 10pm-2am]

Thursday, January 6 ~ 40,000 words
[write 10am-1pm, work 130pm-930pm, write 10pm-1am]

Friday, January 7 ~ 44,000 words
[10am-1pm]

Saturday, January 8 ~ 58,000 words
[3pm-3am (includes various breaks)]

Sunday, January 9 ~ 64,000 words
[1pm-2pm, 7pm-9pm]

And so it’s finished. My fourth and longest novel, and i’m absolutely in love with it and all the craziness going on inside its walls. Thought i had 20,000 more words to write, and they were the ones, maybe, i wrote the previous 64,000 to get to, only to realise, when i got there, that it didn’t need them, shouldn’t have them. Aesthetically, they were going to be perfect, exactly what i’d always dreamt i could do with words and structure, but i discovered today, while not writing [decided to take the day off], that the rest was already in the novel, though buried, and that it should be left for the reader, and i shouldn’t handfeed them. Never do that. Never make it easy on your reader because they’ll resent you for it, for making them feel stupid, and it closes out the limitlessness of the words. Man, still might write those last 20,000, though. Not as part of the novel, but a separate novella, one never to see the light of day.

What’s it about? I’ll just copy a little synopsis i shared somewhere. Maybe not a synopsis, but a teaser, maybe.

I can see the ending now, but it’s a long way off and several more deaths away. Did i mention that everyone dies? Also, along with that, there’s no violence. I think this is my version of The Plague by Albert Camus, except everything’s different. Ravens the size of eagles, the Goddess of Death, a new religion of asceticism, shadows ripped from people and eaten by the Ravens, and everyone burns away, combusts in a matter of moments to leave only the scorch stain of where they last touched the earth.  And then there’s all this business of different realities and collided universes and how a girl fell through a mirror to find her reflection only to re-enter the world as another and the man who lost her so long ago that’s been following her trail for a decade. Is that a synopsis? I don’t know. There’s so much more to do and i don’t want to have to sleep. I wish there were three of me to get all this writing done. One ydde is never enough.

The above was actually written four days ago, but it’s all true. Except, probably, it being like Camus’ The Plague, because all i remember about that novel is that there’s a plague and maybe a priest. But, i think, this is my existential novel, the one most influenced by the ideas that never left me concerning the absurd and angst.

But, yeah, in high spirits.

Sleep. Finally.

One thought on “to write for seven days

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