As I exit the third week and enter the home stretch on track, I wonder how it went by so quickly. Last Sunday feels like yesterday. And I’ll tell you one thing: The benefits weren’t exaggerated.
I might want to clarify this beforehand: half the week, I was behind, because I skipped a few days. But when I wrote, I wrote. I had inspiration, not time. But my prose was better and less plot-holed than week 2. Not to mention the internet was extremely distracting, and now I’m debted to make several Christmas cards for people out of the state/in Ontario. I also skipped out on a hell of a lot of homework.
But there was something special about this week: I was immersed in the story. The characters, the plot, and for once, I let my imagination write instead of sticking to my mental outline. Sure, my editor might have been a little disappointed, but it can all be fixed later.
I also realized how in need of redemption my novel was, perhaps more so than last year. The whole thing is poorly structured and a bit random. The beginning is uninteresting and slow. But that doesn’t matter.
Because I am falling in love with my novel again.
See, at the end of September, I was pumped for my NaNo. If I weren’t asexual I might have imagined stroking the sexy, sexy book and breathing in its intoxicating smell. But by the middle of October, I was ready to give away some of my characters and make half of them vampires already. And by November, I was barely enthused enough to begin.
But now, I’m ready. I love the novel. The characters have suddenly become interesting and my premise is taking off, and I’m so very happy to be close to be writing the climax.