When I’m writing a three-hundred-page novel, I struggle through three distinct, predictable stages.
Stage one: Grief
Amount of time it seems to occupy: Forty years
Number of pages it actually consumes: 140
Symptoms: Excessive moaning, groaning, and general inability to write, accompanied by frequent complaints of “How in the world does anyone ever put together all these words?!” and “Oh my god I have to write a zillion pages more!” Attempting to remember how I’ve already written a dozen novels that indeed have appeared on the shelves of Barnes and Nobles nationwide only convinces me that those were only a fluke. Obviously Or maybe magical pixies wrote them for me while I was sleeping. Because god knows that I am not talented or patient or crazy enough to write them myself.
Stage two: Elation
Amount of time it seems to occupy: Pages 145-150
Number of pages it actually consumes: Pages 145-150
Symptoms: A general feeling of peppiness, euphoria, benevolence, and goodwill to all. It’s accompanied by a confidence that all the struggle heretofore has been for the best, that the heavens have bestowed upon me a lovely premise that is going to turn out to be the finest book I have ever written. It is that moment that every writer lives for, when all is clear and lucid. And it lasts for roughly three hours before plunging into. . . .
Stage three: Panic
Amount of time it seems to occupy: Remember in college how you pulled all-nighters and kept awake sheerly from brute force, caffeine, and nerves? Like an entire week of that and no sleep whatsoever.
Number of pages it actually consumes: Pages 150-300
Symptoms: Screeching, irritability, and a certainty that you have created too much plot to fit in the amount of space you have left oh my god it’s all just going too fast and how in the world am I going to . . . Jane, stop this crazy thing! Sure signs you’re in this phase: your friends and loved ones shun and/or divorce you.
Gee, writing’s fun!
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