So this morning I was all set to buckle down, write 11k, and pass that glorious 50k mark a good twenty-one days early.
Instead, I wrote 2,000 words, and realized how much I loathed my novel. We’re talking extreme hatred, here.
And so I started over on a completely new novel.
I know, I know. Shocking turn of events, right? I feel like The Last Garden could, possibly, maybe, one day in the distant future be wrangled into something resembling a book. But this is not that time.