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I’m checking in a little early because I’m going away tomorrow and I don’t know if I’ll have time to post!
Current word count:
26625. Yeah, I only wrote 4029 words this week so far. Not good! >_<
WIP issues this week:
Ergh. Everything. I’m trying to get through the dreaded middle third of the book, and it’s not going well! My plot is wobbling, I’m getting confused about what I’ve written and haven’t written (lack of plotting bites me in the ass every time) and I keep jumping backwards and forwards, adding things, deleting things, editing things. It’s a nightmare! In the past, I would have probably given up and started another draft, but not this time! I’m going to keep moving forward (well, two steps forward, one step back), so that’s a sort of progress, I suppose.
What I learnt this week in writing:
Some weeks, it’s just not going to happen and life is going to get in the way and I mustn’t let it get me down too much. After a writing slump, I need to get up, dust myself off, and move on. Focusing on failure doesn’t lead to success.
What distracted me this week while writing:
Very sad things, very stressful things, things that I don’t want to write about in my blog but have taken up a lot of my brain space. I hope next week will be better.
Last 200 words:
[Closer to 300 words, but I wanted to post a fairly coherent excerpt this time.]
Berro is a reluctant drinker and an even more reluctant dancer, but he stands with his friends in the crowd, nodding his head and tapping his feet and sipping from a wooden cup as the crowd swirls around him. He tries to focus on Fessi; lithe, beautiful Fessi, but his mind keeps snapping back to images of the singed, one-legged corpse, and thoughts about Undry. He needs more brew.
After his third cup, the brew starts to work its magic and he feels the tension in his shoulders ease. Two singers are harmonising now. Berro can’t catch all the words but their voices are rich and whole. The music has a strong, driving rhythm that starts to work its way into the core of his body. He’s not aware of the moment that his foot-tapping turns into dancing but he is vaguely aware that people are starting to look at him. Through the effects of the brew, he tries to assess whether or not this is a bad thing, and decides that it isn’t, based on the smiles and the rhythmic nodding and the fact that a few other dancers seem to be dancing into his orbit.
This is what dancers do, he muses. They feed off each others’ energy. They are drawn to each other like moths to lamplight. Magrin is beaming and clapping her hands together and swaying her hips. Berro takes her hands; he knows that’s what he’s doing even though he feels completely disconnected from his own body. He wonders briefly if there was more than just brew in his cup, but the thought disappears before he can consider it fully. He spins Magrin around and around and her laughter is like raindrops in sunshine.
It’s good to have friends, he thinks. He tries to plant the thought deeper into his mind so that he will remember it in the morning. It’s good to have friends.