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I've spent this week carefully combing through the first chapters of my third novel. I needed to be sure of the direction it was heading, that the characters were right. After all, I fired one of those persons of non-reality, and a few of my 'fictional' peeps are based on friends. Had to be 100% ON.
I was pleased to see that not all of those chapters were complete disaster. The changes were relatively simple and it all looked pretty good, if I do say so myself.
And chapter eight blew my mind! I had action! I had detail! I had great character dramatization! I had a great...Where's my cliff-hanger ending? There's no ending at all!
Yes, of COURSE I went into an arm-waving panic. Until I read all the way to the bottom. Then I came to a stunning conclusion.
I'd forgotten to finish it. Imagine that.
I remember it distinctly...like it was weeks ago.
It's the part where after an eventful night of paranormal activity, my heroine gives the object of her desire her personal cell number. You know...just in case he has any questions or concerns about the ghosthunting investigation. And because he's a hottie, but she's too shy to say that.
After a day of successful writing, (I'm BRILLIANT!) I seemed to run out of juice. (Because I also SUCK!) I remember thinking, "How do I make her sound like a professional when deep inside she WANTS him? How do I make the discussion believable and still stay in character?"
I didn't have it in me. I'd decided I would work on it later...maybe after a nap or a bite to eat.
I guess I never went back. Chapters nine and ten are complete, and at first glance they seem to be unaffected by my transgression. Good thing I checked, huh? Good Lord.
I mean, who DOES that?