Only now do I understand why my story needed such a drastic word cut. And it is as I feared all along. As it currently sits, it’s slow, dog slow.

I sensed this yet didn’t feel I had enough writer/reader experience to make that call by myself. No one had mentioned it was slow before. The big catalyst event that sets everything into motion doesn’t hit until twenty-five thousand words in. That’s a long time to expect readers to stick with it. I probably wouldn’t.

I’ve since learned that the big catalyst for a novel should strike no later than the nine to eleven thousand word range, and it has to be really, really big (isn’t that part of why we like to write fiction anyway?). I was happy to hear that I already have a lot of good stuff written in there. Much of it sits in the wrong places to be the most effective and I haven’t been economical on word choices in the long, rambling sections.

But I can still make this work.

I have a third of a new outline completed. Yes, I’m going about this slowly. I’m also a writer who swings from one side to the other in the “Yes, I outline/No, I don’t outline” debate.

In the beginning, back in the “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing but I doing it anyway” exciting newbie writer days, I had to create outlines and stick to them. I simply didn’t know what I was doing to work without one. Interestingly enough perhaps, I completed more work back then. Unfinished work sharply rose as I listened to more people scoff outlines and I strayed from using them. I still don’t believe any outline should be treated as though carved in stone, and I won’t go that far. I like how twists pop up unexpectedly. But clearly I need an outline now. I’m good with this.

Here at home, it’s still windy. I am NOT picking up branches again for what will be the fifth time. I’ll remember this for that future date when I live at the beach, on the beach, where it’s windy most of the time (Don’t know if I can handle the constant sand everywhere factor). Then again, it’s likely I won’t have to worry about that at all. So I won’t.

Strange dream last night about holding a day-long writers’ workshop here at home.

In real life, we built our house with the intent of filling it once a month with creative people: artists, writers, and thinkers. I enjoy that kind of interaction. Two months after our home completion, The Man woke up barely able to walk. Two weeks later, he was officially diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and his personality changed completely. He withdrew into himself and the intent died.

In my dream, I managed to pull together a writers’ workshop here at home. I made sure people were comfortable and had food and drink available at their fingertips. And that this was a positive, creative atmosphere in which to create. Attendees paid a lot of money to participate but that all went to the awesome author instructors. I didn’t care to see a dime of it. I just wanted to supply a place that worked for anyone interested.

But that also meant I couldn’t afford to attend the workshop myself. Someone suggested I just sit in on one of the sessions. After all, it was my place being used. Initially, I balked and then changed my mind. And sure enough, as the session began, I was called out and asked to leave the area.

Even as I remember this part and am typing it here, my face feels hot with embarrassment.

Assessment: More internal struggle with believing I’m a real writer? Yeah, probably. Or it means something entirely different, if anything at all. * shrugs *