Imagine you’re running a marathon. You hear the [...]]]> I’m almost there guys. I’m about 100 pages away from finishing this novel. Let me rephrase that…I’m 100 pages away from finishing my second draft of this novel. I don’t know if I should laugh or cry, but I feel like crying. Let me explain.

Imagine you’re running a marathon. You hear the whistle blow, (considering I’ve never participated in a marathon, I imagine a whistle blowing, or someone in a loud voice yelling, “Go!” It’s probably more like the Olympics where a buzzer or gunshot goes off. But you get my drift people…) When you hear that whistle, (or gunshot, buzzer, screaming voice—take your pick) you fly off like a rocket. You feel your heart pumping, your muscles are getting warm—you’re cruising. This is what you’ve been training for—this feeling of exuberance at what your body can do. But after a few miles something happens. If you squint really hard you can see the finish line. But your legs are no longer warm, their burning, like a fire inside of your body is lit. Your heart is pumping, racing so fast you wonder, “Is this what a heart attack feels like?” And then it happens. You slow down. Or worse, stop altogether.

Why? There’s a million reasons why, but I can only give you this one—you’re doggone tired, that’s why!

I’ve been working on this novel for about six months now, (probably longer) and as I revise I’ve done major changes. I’ve changed character’s names. I’ve tweaked their personalities, changed their voice. I’ve turned villains into heroes and heroes into villains. I’ve scrapped beautiful yet boring scenes, thus moving the action along. This, my friends is not easy. Your brain feels fried, you wonder, “Have I ever worked this hard before?” Your mind is so full of information for your novel, that your short-term memory is stunted. What’s today’s date? What did I wear yesterday? Oh that’s right, I didn’t leave the house yesterday… You’ve zapped so much mental energy that your brain is begging for a break, it’s begging you, “Please just let me sit down! Veg out in front of the TV…Yes! An episode of Seinfeld is on! Now let me lie here and turn to mush…”

Case in point. One of my characters has an accident and breaks her wrist. Several chapters later I have her crocheting. What? So I had to decide to either scrap the crocheting all together, or change my character’s injury. What’s a girl to do? The crochet scenes were important and showed the growth that this particular character had gone through. But I needed to stay consistent, I couldn’t have my reader’s scratching their heads going, “Hey, she can’t crochet! Her wrist is broken!” Once your story loses plausibility, then down your readership goes. But my brain was tired. I’d already changed several scenes and couldn’t for the life of me rewrite another one. So I put a huge red question mark on those pages and stopped for the night.

That was Sunday. Yesterday, my novel sat on my living room floor—abandoned. So I took a deep breath. “Katrina, you can do this, you can finish!” After a few more pep talks, I picked up my red pen, reached deep down inside myself and…lied back down on the couch.

But hey, today’s a new day. And my novel will get revised. Like the runner, I took a pause but ultimately knew that I had to finish what I started. I was too close to the finish line to give up—like my Mama says, “Giving up ain’t even on the table, baby.”  I knew this process was going to be hard—I’m stretching myself in ways I haven’t done before. So yes, this brain of mine is burning, my heart is about to give out, but I will cross that finish line.

Bribe: anything given or promised to induce a person to do something against his or her wishes.

I bet if I my desk was made of Butterfinger’s, I would be sitting there [...]]]> I did write today. But the word count was so pitiful I couldn’t share it. Just trust me, it was bad.

Bribe: anything given or promised to induce a person to do something against his or her wishes.

I bet if I my desk was made of Butterfinger’s, I would be sitting there all day, writing. Write, nibble. Write, nibble. Yep, it’s getting that bad. I have to bribe myself to sit my butt down and write. But since I started Weight Watchers, I can’t use food. (Bye, bye Butterfinger…)

Here are a few of the things I plan to give myself if I push past the middle of my WIP:

A manicure and pedicure. Nothing like sitting your hands and feet in bubbly scented water to make you want to write.

Make-up. Particularly blush. I love blush.

Perfume. Because who doesn’t want to smell nice?

Now these rewards don’t come easy. It’s only after I add 5,000 words to my novel. Then, I get a treat day. Hopefully this works. If not—Hello Butterfinger!

In other news…

I have BIG, BIG, BIG news to share! This Friday, superstar authors Virginia Deberry and Donna Grant are stopping by Curl Up and Write! We dish about their new book Uptown, the publishing business, and of course, hair. Tomorrow, I’ll share how I got the opportunity to interview them. (Does not include any of the following: begging, arm-twisting, hair-pulling. Well, maybe a little bit of begging…)

So tell all your friends/writing buddies and stay tuned this week!

I’m losing it. [...]]]> 47,819 words. I know. I know that number hasn’t changed since my last post. Things are getting…rough. That word that I hate is starting to creep up my spine, telling me that I can’t finish, that I won’t finish, that I shouldn’t finish. Doubt. I am beginning to doubt myself…

I’m losing it. I was there guys, I swear. I was in the zone. The perfect writing zone where you can see yourself finishing your book in a couple of weeks. Sure, you have a mountain of revisions, but you’re close to the end…so close that your fingers keep wanting to type, THE END, at the end of each chapter.

But now I’ve lost it. I’ve lost some of my joy—for the past couple of days writing has felt like torture.

I hate that word. Torture. I use to roll my eyes at my Writer’s Digest when I read about a famous author’s writing angst.

“It’s not brain surgery,” I use to think to myself. “There are real people out there suffering and they’re complaining about writing? Shame on them!”

And now, shame on me. I look at my calendar, my word goal scribbled in a black Sharpie, and my heart feels with dread. So I cover papers over it—my daughter’s latest Crayola creation, a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, a Weight Watchers magazine—anything that will block out the promises I made that I would write that day.

So when I straightened my desk this morning and I see the total word count I had for the end of this month, my stomach plunges. I’m nowhere near that. What happened?

I didn’t feel like writing on those days. And now, I’m kicking myself for not making myself write. I’m a newbie, but with two books under my belt I do know this—the more you write, the more you feel like writing. Writing everyday kept my characters fresh in my head. I was excited to know what they were going to do that day. But now, since I haven’t written anything in awhile, I’ve lost touch with them. It’s sort of like when you’ve haven’t called a good friend in a long time. You’re next phone call is spent just catching up. But if they’re a good friend, you find that when you do catch up, you don’t miss a beat—it’s like you talked to them yesterday. So that’s what I plan to do with my WIP—get back in the groove with my characters and treat them like a good friend. Like I talked to them yesterday.