Assorted Afflatuses

As the banal phrase goes, Rome was not built in a day. Similarly, thirty days does not a great novel make, as I have discovered in the last three weeks.

For almost three weeks ago today, for whatever insane reason, I decided to — certainly not for the first time — challenge myself. But instead of attempting a set of insanely difficult math problems I have endeavored to write (or, perhaps more aptly, type) a fifty-thousand word novel in thirty days. For my English class, of course. Insane? Yes. Painful? Yes. Rewarding? Potentially.

At first the idea seemed a good one: I had an idea for a novel, but I never actually sat down to write it. With this project for my English class I could kill two birds with one stone. The first draft of the novel would be complete and I would help myself succeed in English.

Yet, three weeks into the project, it is beginning to wear me down. So far, I have written a pitiful 25,817 words, which puts me slightly behind the recommended target that, mathematically, one should have reached by this point in the thirty-day novel writing process.

My real problem stems from a lack of planning. The idea I had for my mystery-thriller novel was very vague and, with only thirty days to write the book, I did not spend as much time planning out the various twists and turns the plot would take beforehand. This lack of planning has manifested itself in numerous plot incongruities that will have to be ironed out later.

Frankly, I just want to cross the fifty-thousand word mark to assure myself that such a feat can be accomplished. I imagine that I will feel less internal resistance toward the notion of writing a novel, perhaps in sixty or ninety days and with more planning, knowing that I can weave a fifty-thousand word tale.

(Read the prologue after the discontinuation).