Last night, Erin and I traded and read each other's novel beginnings. I was almost surprised at how good Erin's was. I say "almost" because I would expect Erin to be a good writer, with lots of humor and a no-nonsense attitude about her subjects, and she is; it's just that after hearing her lament over her writing during that first noveling session we had together, I began to wonder whether it was, after all, as horrible as she thought it was. It wasn't though -- quite the opposite. She gave me hope for my own writing as well, claiming that enjoyed my first chapter. I trust Erin's opinion, and I hope we know each other well enough at this point that if it really was tripe she would tell me so. (Right, Erin?)
So last night I went to bed feeling much more hopeful about things and spent about half an hour considering the rest of my novel and how I wanted things to shape up, before I got to sleep. This morning I got up and spent about an hour writing, and got a good 800 words out, feeling quite happy with how they were working out. And then ...
After making some lupper, I sat down just now to get going again and discovered that I had somehow neglected to save what I wrote this morning. All of that 800 words of genius, gone!
I could cry salty tears. (25 points)
By the way, the last quote was from
The Unknown Ajax by Georgette Heyer.
1 comment:
Ouch. I hate it when that happens. It's like you turn around and your arm is missing.
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