I've managed a lot of writing this weekend - much to the chagrin of my family. My wife told my daughter yesterday to ask that strange muttering man upstairs who occasionally comes down, if he'd like some dinner. I got the point.
The only thing is that no matter how much I write, the novel doesn't seem to be getting any larger. I know it must be because I'm typing all day long. The word count is growing and the page numbers are increasing. So what's your problem, you might ask?
The story isn't progressing.
I think I know the problem. For the last few years, all I've done is edit and refine novels already written. But now, I'm actually being forced to write from scratch. It makes me wonder how I ever wrote seven complete works, and that's ignoring the ones so garbage-ey that even I knew they had to be thrown away.
It is coming along and don't want to rush it because few people will enjoy, or even buy a novel comprising about one hundred pages. But I want to get to the nitty-gritty. I want the violence and the mayhem. Unfortunately I also have to write the stuff that goes in between; you know those tedious parts about characters, their personalities and motives.