I would tell you that I am 75% done with the book calculated by word count, but it seems every time I write nowadays I end up with fewer words. It’s not because I’m editing, either. It’s like the Missing Dollar riddle.
The fun parts are in first draft form, but I have almost nothing written for the middle or the bit directly after, because that is the dark night of the soul and unpleasant.
I should not care so much about how close I am to the end of the first draft, but now that I’ve plotted out the ending, it feels like the end is in sight. Yet I’m dragging my feet. I don’t know why: I’m going to enjoy writing the end, now that I know exactly what it’s going to be. But I think this is like painting. I love the finishing touches but by then I am so sick of it I ignore some last needed bits — that extra depth on the sundials, or the cast shadows on everything.
I could just put it away, but things make sense now. The puzzle pieces are falling into place. I think I’m at the part of the painting when I like it, and I fear the next brushstroke will make it all go wrong. And that makes no sense - you can re-paint an oil painting, you can rewrite a book — in fact, you’re supposed to rewrite a book.
It’s been a week since I sorted out the ending. I should be having fun. Why isn’t this fun?