I reached 75,000 words on my latest novel in progress—after the realization that I had several gaping plot holes and that I had shamelessly used ridiculous plot devices to make the story do what I wanted it to do. All my disparaging of outlines is coming back to gnaw at me most painfully. I had to move around massive chunks of story and I have copious scenes and details to correct and re-write.
As I thought about the bedraggled, snarled mess that is this novel, I couldn’t help but think of Anne Bradstreet’s poem. Thank you, high school English. Now, never fear, I won’t try to write my own version because poetry and I get along together just about as well as vampires and sunlight. At least the real vampires. The good thing coming out of all this is that I’ve got the fire lit under my behind to get this giant mess of crossed wires straightened out. Here’s hoping I don’t end up more twisted and confused than I was before!