If you've read this blog for any length of time, you've probably read about my goal of writing a novel. It's not all that unusual a dream, and truth be told, I'm not completely sure why I have it.
I've always liked writing. I wrote a bit in my early teenage years - nothing very good - and in high school, I stood out among my peers in several writing assignments. I've written a few articles for various blogs and had a piece published in the online magazine, Venture (no longer around.) I've spent much of the last six years doing some form of writing. I've blogged here off and on, and done a lot of reading about writing and thinking about writing. And I've also done a decent amount of actual writing.
My first novel attempt (which doesn't even deserve that name) was little more than me figuring out how not to write a book.
My second, the book I'm working on now, deserves the title of novel. It's been brainstormed and trashed. Written and re-written. Outlined and scratched and re-outlined. I don't know how many drafts of this story I've been through to uncover the actual story that I am telling now. I'm nearly 100,000 words in, and while I know for certain that I have the real story here, I'm still pretty far off from finishing it.
And that's the part I'm struggling with.
