Practice, or the Lack Thereof

May I take a moment to vent? I’m finally sitting down to do some first draft writing. I’ve been waiting for a darn long time to do this. First there was the Vodnik rewrite, followed by the Ichabod rewrite, followed by plotting the current book and then another bout of Ichabod rewriting. What does this mean? It means it’s been a good nine months since I last wrote a first draft. I’ve decided this is much too long. My fingers are rusty. The connection between them and my brain is clogged. I need to get it going, and it’s probably going to take some bad writing to do it. It doesn’t help that I keep wanting to go back to Ichabod’s world. I know the characters there so much better–I spent a good year with them, after all. Starting a new book feels like when I go to a party and don’t know anyone. I feel awkward, out of place and unsure what to talk about.

Okay. Venting done. Whining complete. I’ll go back to writing now.

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