I spent yesterday not writing. Couldn't focus. Then the drugs kicked in. Shame, guilt - those drugs. I sat down and banged out a page and a half of useful material, finishing at two in the morning. Which makes it either an eighteen-hour day (all the time I tried to work) or a two-hour day (the time I got anything done). My world and welcome to it.
Today was a little more conventional. Type, pace, read Mary Wesley novel (soooo good), type, eat snack, watch news, type. I’m halfway through the chapter and done for the day.
But I don’t know about the last scene. My guy’s running away from home, and a little sentimentality would fit the mood. I tried it, but I don’t really like it.
I know sentimentality sells. I get it. John Green, Jenny Han, et al. make more from royalties in a day than I do in three careers. But I’m the one shaking my head at myself in the mirror. BTW, this is not a knock on Green or Han. I admire their authenticity as much as their sales figures. They are convincing as sentimentalists. I would not be.
Here is a version of a chat I have had with several editors.
Me: D’you think that scene with the puppy is too sentimental?
Editor: No.
Me: Are you sure? Playing fetch? Seems pretty soppy.
Editor: It’s fine. It’s good.
Me: I’m going to rewrite it and drown the puppy.
Editor: NO!
We’ll have to see if today’s leaving-home scene survives rewrite.