Suffice it to say that I've given up trying to mold this manuscript into a cohesive novel. All I'm doing now is writing with no goal in sight. Know how much I researched how to remove old bathroom tiles yesterday? Way too much. I almost feel like I could actually do it. (Installing new tiles is complicated, though - FYI.) Or how to find the water shutoff valve to one's house?
Why??
Because I have nowhere to go and no way to get there. It's not as if I couldn't turn this into a good story, but there are holes (big holes) that need filling. I almost prefer the original iteration, regardless of its faults.
When in doubt, I always fall back on dialogue, but there is now far too much of it, as well as far too many dialogue scenes. I am in dire need of a block of exposition, which is maybe why I delved into the whole bathroom tile scenario, but while that's somewhat comprehensive, it's boring and does nothing to advance the story. It's just words.
If I'm ever going to form a whole, I'll need to rip this thing apart, trash the needless scraps, then tape the remains back together.
My lesson? Never, ever go back. Yes, the original version was far too short, but I could have simply fleshed out the narrative, rather than changing the entire focus of the story. That previously unseen character maybe should have remained invisible. Because now I don't know what to do with her.
I've curtailed my writing sessions to only two or three per week. Because I'm not inspired. And when I do force myself to write, I pour out nothing but drivel. I suppose it'll be ruefully amusing to read back what I wrote. I could use a good laugh right about now.
I've chosen to be philosophical about it, which is why I just keep writing, even though it's pointless.
If, by some miracle, this ever becomes a published story, you will be one of the few to know what I went through to birth it.
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