The locusts have been off school and college all week but they're late risers (some days it's barely worth their while) so I've managed three or four hours writing every morning before they rise and point to their mouths.
There are so many pieces of advice out there about writing. Some of them are useful, some trite, some so idiosynchratic that they're only of use to the people who offer them. But one of the ones generally accepted is re-writing.
Usually I re-read what I've written each day and edit it for style, punctuation, spelling and occasionally delete most of it. But this week I've barely read a word once it's passed my line of sight on the screen. Five days, 15,000 words, all in a rush. And I'm scared to read it now.
Why did this happen? Well, it's the first time it's happened, that's for sure. I write in fits and starts, usually about 3 or 4000 words a week. Sometimes it's easier than others, but this week it's been a piece of cake. I knew where the story was going, already knew the characters, had my research all around me. And it just flew out, unhindered, and felt exactly as I'd imagined it. But now I'm frightened to read it, in case it's a pile of rubbish. In case I have to rewrite it.
Oh, and another rejection letter in the post this morning . . . next to a proof copy of the lovely paperback edition of Winter Shadow.
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