I'm trying not to think about word counts tonight. I'm so far behind that it will take a miracle for me to finish my goal. I'm trying to focus on finishing my book instead. This thing is like the neverending story. It keeps growing and growing and growing (kinda like my waistline.)
If I ever finish this thing, and that's a big if, it's going to be a lot longer than I had originally planned. That's not a bad thing, as long as it's well written. I hesitate to go back and read it for fear I'll find out it's all crap. I know, I know, every writer goes through this, at a certain point we all hate our own stories and think we're hacks. But, we can't all be wrong, can me? Some of us have to suck. For every Diana Gabaldon or Diane Duane or Dianna Wynne Jones there are a thousand, even a hundred thousand wannabes. (What is it about the name Diane, anyway. I just realized that my main character's name is a form of the shared first name of three of my favorite authors... weird. I need an Edgar, an Isaac and a Georgette now, too.)
Ok, I'm rambling, enough for tonight. Time to take Harley and go see if I can dream up another story idea that will torture me while I try to put it on paper.