Back from my trip sailing around the BVI, where I did almost zero writing because my pen decided to stop working and nobody else had one. I ended up typing a little bit on my phone, but with the added sea sickness, well, I didn’t get much done. I’m disappointed in myself because I lost that momentum I was grasping onto so tightly.
I’m about halfway done ~50,000 words, but that in itself I think is pretty good. Not good enough, but pretty good. I’m getting lost in my own thoughts. My story has seemed to grow into this complex entity I can no longer tame down and control. I’m losing hope.
A part of me wants to scrap the whole thing and forget about it, but I’ve come so far! I’m stuck wondering how painful it’s going to be to try and finish it, and if it would be even worth editing. I like my characters, and that’s really my only saving grace here. I like them enough to want to tell their story. So, I sit at my desk with my head cradled in the palms of my hands and beg for things to start coming together.
Am I the only one whose experienced this dilemma? Should I give it up…no. I can’t give up. If not for anything else, I need to finish this to know that I can finish this…to know that I can try this again and possibly succeed.