Yesterday was not a good writing day. I can't say how many words I wrote, because I really don't know. Less than 500. I realised that what I'd written on Monday was not quite right, and that what I was writing yesterday was totally fucking wrong. So, since to me prologues are the place where the feel and voice of the whole book is established, so it must be right, I began rearranging words and sentences and tearing things apart. I suppose this is what most writers call rewriting a first draft. I call it not getting the damn thing right to start with. I have never before written a book like this book. Murder of Angels and Daughter of Hounds were bridges leading me here, but now the bridges are behind me and, to me, this is another place entirely, an undiscovered country. Truly a fairie tale. I did learn yesterday that the blonde woman sitting in the dinner by the sea is Níamh of the Golden Hair, Níamh Chinn Óir, daughter of Fand and Manannán mac Lir, and that the goblin who shows up is named Jackdaw Thumbknuckle. Those were the good things about the writing day yesterday. The rest I'd rather not revisit.
Today, I will begin again.
I'm thinking this will be a short entry.
It was actually sort of cold here yesterday. About 5 p.m. we started off on a walk, but I was in such a foul mood from having a lousy writing day, and the air was so nippy and there was so much wind, we didn't go very far. After dinner, I retreated into Second Life, and proceeded to pretend it would be a thousand years before I had to worry about the novel again.
It was a short thousand years.
Anyway, there's nothing for it but to slog on. That way lies THE END. I've been here many times before, and I know I can find my way. It only takes forever and patience and a few million keystrokes.