Pub Crawl Serenade

The penultimate is out of the way, and the last chapter of Diners at the Memory’s End is upon me.  Another two or three thousand words, and the story comes to an end, and this long, strange journey is over.

I was surprised to discover, at the end of the session, that I’d written just over a thousand words.  These days I seem to be too concerned with word counts, and even commented to someone last night that this novel–and it is one–has taken too damn long to write, from my point of view.

Why do I believe this?  Because I’m nuts, that’s why.

The emotional part of my mind is going, “Oh, man, you’re dragging ass on this story, dude!  You started at the end of May, and here you are, getting fifty thousand words the first week in August?  Slacker!”  There is a certain truth to that, because I’ve done a lot more in a lot less time.

Then the rational part of my mind–which is a very small part, let me remind you–starts in on analyzing this stuff, and comes back with, “If you’re gonna judge everything by that insanity you call NaNoWriMo, you can just lock yourself up now, ’cause not everything is NaNo Novel Abuse.”

Yes, Her Demonic Majesty ended up being eighty-five thousand words written in twenty-five days.  But, I was home all day, with nothing to do, no work to deal with, very few other obligations at hand.  With that in mind, cranking out thirty-five hundred words a day wasn’t a big deal.

When I wrote Kuntilanak, I also wrote that in twenty-five days.  That work was twenty-five thousand words, or a third as much as Majesty.  When I wrote Echoes, that took me five weeks, and it was the first story I started on while starting my new job.  That story ended up being just over twenty thousand, five hundred words.

Besides, the first draft of Couples Dance was thirty-six thousand words in about six weeks, so was just a little more ahead of the curve there than I was with Diners.

I told someone last night I need to lighten up.  The story ends when the story ends, and if it takes three months to write a novel, stop freaking.  This is but another thing I need to learn, to allow myself to grow as a writer, and stop worrying over crap that isn’t worth the worry.

Part Seventeen ended on a good note.  The characters are in a pub, enjoying themselves.  Albert is finally having a good time, playing keyboards and singing badly.  Sort of an in-joke there, because if you’ve ever heard me sing, then you’ll know what a horror show Albert is unleashing upon fellow students.

Part Eighteen I’ll likely start this evening.  I have another chapter of my web story to write later, and then I’ll have time for Diners.  The end is truly upon me, and I feel both good–and somewhat sad.  Because it has been a long, strange summer, and when I see this story, I’ll know what happened while it was composed.

One of these days, so will my readers.