Okay, so I’m a little behind schedule. The important thing is I haven’t stalled.
I had hoped to rewrite my novel by the time my son was born. I’m close to half way done (around thirty chapters left), but my wife’s due date is nine days away.
If she goes early, or even on time, then no, I’m not going to make it. If she goes late, and I really bust my butt, then ... well, it’s a maybe.
I’ve had to throw out whole chapters. Write new ones to replace the ones I couldn’t live with. I’ve deepened the characters and their relationships. More imagery. More suspense. It’s been slow going.
I’m happy, though. Happy to be writing. Happy to see the progress I’ve made from the first draft to now. Happy that the world I’ve created (or at least transcribed) is becoming more real and defined.
It is the euphoric sense of purpose that only comes from the act of creating. It doesn’t really matter what comes of this novel, does it? As long as I can be happy with my work, then the rest will work itself out.