So apparently the crippling fear that one has no skills nor talent to speak of is a spectre that haunts all writers. I’ll make a point of trying not to make that a subject of ongoing thought, as it doesn’t seem to be particularly productive.
Starting to get more into the story, which is already taking a on a life of its own just 5 pages/1 chapter/2.5K words in. My character profiles are slipping and turning, and all my best intentions to write clearly and intentionally are fading into a swamp of decidedly purple prose.
However, every time I reread my draft so far, all I do is expand on it. The editing is going to be a nightmare, but the story and characters are starting to take a hold of me.
I’m starting to see it all; the cold, utilitarian insides of the tower, severely antiseptic, the shapeless uniforms designed to conceal form and dull interest, contrasted with the sturdier, more functional uniforms of inspector and guard.
It’s turning much more sci-fi than I ever intended, advanced technology sprouting up where I had expected to find magic, but I can’t seem to get rid of it. I’m sure my heart will be cut out when we get to the editing stage, as I’m losing nearly all objectivity.
I can feel it draining away, being pushed to the edges of my mind as the story and the world expand and take form. It feels more like discovery than creation.
Perhaps all true creation does.
Start Time: 1:30 am
Location: couch/living room
Drinking: earl gray