Between April 21st and July 17th of this year, I wrote over 60,000 words. And they were all crap.
I didn't think so at the time. I thought my story had finally found me. THIS would be the one I would have to tell, THIS would be the one I would lovingly polish, perfect and send to agents and editors around the country, THIS would be the one that would be auctioned off, pursued by major studios for film rights, pay for my children's college education.
Not so much.
On July 17th, a short little blonde who was marginally crazy started saying stuff inside my head (all writers know it's good when this happens, non-writers roll their eyes and mention the possibility of medication). I kept saying, "Yes, honey, hold on. Not your turn. Not your turn. All these other people are busy doing stuff in here and there's not a lot of room to begin with, plus my two-year-old has figured out how to scale the fridge and my seven-year-old can quote way too many Spongebob episodes verbatim...NOT YOUR TURN."
Well, it was.
So, I sadly buried my 60,000+ words and started afresh. Three months and 40,000+ words later, my sweet little crazy blond is still talking.
I'm still in love with the process. I still love doing the work. And hopefully, I'll eventually sell it to someone. I only wish to make enough money that Dear Husband will acknowledge I've actually been doing something besides hanging out on Facebook for the past six months.