This is to point out the reason you should never listen to a writer who complains about his book.
I was in a black mood when I wrote my previous post, feeling that I had made hash out of my Roman novel, and had now made hash out of my 1940’s novel, and was an utter failure of a writer. I did dishes and stormed around the house and figured out how to write the next scene, and did that.
A little while later, I figured out what was wrong (I was thinking too much “story” when I need to forget that and just think “character,” which is the point of the whole novel). That was at about six o’ clock this evening.
My wife got home from work at nine o’ clock. At nine, I had done a total of 8,500 words today. I did 5,000 words yesterday. So I’m at 13,000 words for the past two days, which means I’m practically caught up to where I was when I cut 16,000 words. AND these words are all better, and livelier and more fun. And I got to do a really terrific sequence in loving homage to old Combat Casey sort of pulp stories.
Never listen to a writer.
& now, happily and with sore hands (from typing), I go to bed. Good night, folks.