This week I have discovered that my draft is a draft and not a finished product. This seems to have been apparent to everyone else but me.
This novel is a beast.
ALL novels are beasts, but this one is a big hairy monstrosity of a beast.
I finally have the external conflict working. The internal conflict is not working. Yet.
I languish in the internal conflict. I’m starting to see shadows everywhere because of the utter bleakness of the inside of my character’s head.
But we’ll get through it, she and I. She may not think we will. But the difference between her and me is that I know how the story is going to end.
