I’m well past the halfway point, and it’s looking like I’ll finish by the end of the week (book is a middle grade novel, so it’s only novella length). It started off as a whimsical children’s novel. Now it’s not nearly as whimsical as it once was, sadly.
This has been one of the more absurd writing experiences of my life. Can’t quite talk about it yet since there’s always a chance it could fall apart again, but I’ll let the statistics speak for themselves. I started on the 9th of March. Since then, I’ve worked on it for 79 days and 220 hours and I’ve written 209,000 words. That includes 70+ restarts, including maybe 6 or 7 times when the book got to longer than 15k words, and four separate occasions on which I (in order to clear my head) opened an entirely new, entirely blank Scrivener file so that I could start working on a tabula rasa.
But then it finally came together.
And it happened for a very specific reason that I will relate to you sometime early next week. I’m pretty sure there’s zero chance that the book is going to fall apart at this point, but why risk it?
Also, if you’re someone I’ve mentioned this book to, then you should be aware that the book I’m about to finish is one hundred percent different, in almost every particular (including subgenre) from the one that I told you about.
For fun, I’ve been thinking up my elevator pitch for this one. So far I’m thinking that it’s like Murder on the Orient Express* meets Mathilda.
*There’s actually a different Agatha Christie novel that would be a better comparison, but that might give away the ending.