So there I was, busily digging up my mountain of a climax and moving it a hair’s breadth closer to Quiver’s end. Covered from head to toe in well-versed smut, I was paying little attention to anything but my fool’s errand of a task.
When I finally dragged myself out of the muck and f*ck, I was absolutely shocked to find lying at my feet a complete, utterly exacting outline of my book.
See, while I usually work off of an outline at this point of the process (only 18 days away from the deadline) rarely does the story have more than a second-cousin-once-removed relationship with that outline. During this last mad dash to the end, the novel has usually grown out of its carefully sculpted terracotta pot and blossomed in the most unusual places.
Not this time.
Maybe it’s because of all my frenetic micro-management of the climax?
Maybe it’s because this story is an ornery, fiery, little marvel with a mind all its own?
Whatever the reason, I’ve got myself an extremely detailed, down to each scene’s POV, down to each scene’s freaking word count kind of an outline to guide me through to the end.
I’m kind of dumbfounded by the whole thing.
You know, scratching my head and guppy-facing at the screen.
I think I’m going to like this.
I’m going to like this a whole heck of a lot.