One Thousand, Nine Hundred Eighty-Nine To Go

And, thus far, what’s been learnt?

That I can’t write a “novel” in thirty days. At least, not a vaguely autobiographical novel about people and places I knew twenty years ago.

Instead, I’ve embarked upon this (at last count) 175 paged self-guilt trip through history and fantasy.

Yeah, I thought it’d be noble.

One early page of notes reminds me to:

Write your pain.
Write your embarrassment.
Write your regret.

And I have.
And that is why the Word document is password protected, and will likely never see itself, at least, in its current incarnation, in any printed form.

Though, forty thousand words in, I may have finally found my plot.

One more thing, if you’ve read the “These Two Ever-Present Scraps” post, then you’ve read an excerpt. I’ll probably post other cleaned-up excerpts in the future.

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