When I was ten, we moved to a house within walking distance of my school…sort of. It was about 1/2 hour’s walk. Beautiful in spring and fall. Blisteringly cold in the winter. I can still remember pushing through the snow and ice, the wind and sleet, wishing I could be home, safe and warm.
Writing a novel is a lot like this. Writers, we’re out in the cold with only a vision, a thought of the warm, safe “The End” that will accompany our novel. But wishing the book is not the same as finishing it. The only way to get from beginning to end is to walk through the snow and sleet of plot holes, flat characters, and deleted pages.
So, as we plug through, wishing to be done those 1667 words/day, let’s also remember to keep writing…
http://andrewbacchus.com/ for permission to use this image.