Sometimes you take on a crazy task and it begins to look bearable. Other times it’s absolute nonsense. In my case? It’s becoming a babbling mess which is only continuing because my characters seem to be taking it in a completely different direction- yes, a completely different direction. The first 25,000 words of my so-called novel now contains a 70 year old woman and her 21 year old self. A university, an ideallic little town. A kidnapping and an adoption. Alzheimer’s, a school ‘bombing’ of sorts, a one night stand, a betrayal, an unplanned pregnancy and Iraq. Throw in a couple of car crashes, a complete stanger, and a studentship and you’ve got the first half of my story.
Oh, and let’s not forget the woman who was murdered on the moors.
I’ve gotten to the point where all of the madness actually ties together my plot much nicer than I would have managed to plan it myself, though I now have to worry about throwing too much into the first half. Not worry, I mean, I’m not allowed to edit it until December… At the end of the day I just need to reach 50,000 words. Just finish. Even if that does mean that I might go into Christmas with no sanity left and have people worrying about my dark plot.
Actually, it might be safer if no-one ever see’s the organised chaoes of my mind that’s reflected in this book. Novel… I mean, it’s a novel, right?