Is it possible to tell a nearly half-written novel to “Shut up! And listen, damn it”?
Probably not, since a book is hardly a child and I, for one, am hardly a mother.
Book Two and I need to talk.
Don’t get me wrong. Writhe’s sequel is amazingly close to being right on schedule. I got another 1k words knocked down yesterday, but, man, you should see the bruises. (I’ll be avoiding mirrors for a bit. *lol*)
As I told you yesterday (in quite dramatic fashion, I might add *snickers*), Book Two has been put into order. Heck, it’s even been slapped with chapter numbers. By all rights, it should be feeling quite good about itself.
It can’t get settled, can’t sit still.
One minute it’s whining “I need more romance.”
The next, it’s complaining, “Ick. Too much of the lovey-dovey crap.” (Reminding Book Two that it is a Romance has done little to satisfy the fussy-pot in these moments.)
I’ve tried the Time-Out thing. But making it sit in the corner while I go blithely on with my day has only resulted in a meteoric rise of my guilt and a familiar knock on my front door…
“Hello, Frank calling!”
The last thing I need is another month long visit from my specter of imminent failure. Frank can just go shove it.
All that bravado does little to help Book Two through its pre-teen days.
I’m considering writing down a stringent, scene-precise outline for the whiner to have to follow. No straying from this manifest will be allowed. No tangents off to needless secondary characters. No sidetracks into ninja-fighting.
There are certain rules in this life and even Writhe’s sequel has to follow them…
And If that doesn’t work, I’m calling in Dr. Phil.