I finished my chapter last night, feeling euphoric. I killed someone and it felt really good. You’ll know when you read it.
All my notes are on a yellow legal pad, so I took out my fortune telling machine and looked ahead so I could start thinking about where I wanted to go. There were some timeline issues, so I reorganized, and then I went to bed, exhausted from both a good workout and an excellent word count. The following day, I had a nice little chapter to write that would put another character into his major conflict. The world was good.
I woke up, went through my routine, and found I needed to add a character. It was a Sultan for a new city, which was easy enough. I slapped him together, gave him a pleasant background, put some conflict in his family, made him young, and smiled.
“He should be at odds with his family.”
“What?” I asked the book.
“He needs to be at odds with his family.”
“But that’s a conflict. Like a big conflict. Could we just do some minor shaming, and they try to make Dameneh look foolish?”
I cursed and bashed my head against the desk. This was at least another 10k word count.
As if reading my mind, it rebuked, “I thought you wanted a higher word count. That you were afraid your word count was too low right now.”
My hard stare did not make the manuscript budge on its stance. It was right. Dameneh needed more action. So it was. The great book spoke, and I had a ton of work ahead of me. Maybe it won’t be finished in one week.
Fantasy Writer and Cartographer
Speculative Fiction Author
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I have people to kill, lives to ruin, plagues to bring, and worlds to destroy. I am not the Angel of Death. I'm a fiction writer.