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Slave to the Novel

Two months into revisions and edting. How do you feel?
The middle is my plague, my bane, my ruination. For every thousand words, I have to go back and cut another thousand or two because it never fits right. I’ve been up, I’ve been down, I’ve gained and lost and now I’m pretty much in a deadlock. Word counters are evil wrapped in wickedness, fired by something so dark you can’t even name it.
Dramatic, much?
Kick ‘em. Well, I did. I kicked and then I gave a miraculous gift that fits in with the plot. And then I kicked harder and lo and behold, it led to another gift, the bright, shining gift of all gifts. And then what did I do? I kicked really hard. Not once, buttwice. Of course, when you do that, it kind of leaves a little sniveling. I hate sniveling. Buck up and move on. Not that I do when I get kicked, but then my story is a lot longer than 75,000 words. I have room for sniveling. Bridgit is limited and more than anything, I don’t want her to come off as a whiner. I did have this great scene where she attached lace to the sleeves of the dress she wore to cover the scars on her wrists and then when she got snivelly, she raised her hands and the lace fell back, showing them. But it seemed soooooo dramatic I had to cut it.
If she thought Jonah was going to marry someone else, capable, determined, solid Bridgit wouldn’t sit by and cry about it. She’d go to him and demand to know what was going on. She’s very no-nonsense, but in a sympathetic way.
It’s going to work out. It’s going to come together. Maybe sometime in the next twenty years. Patience. My dad always told me I never had any. I think he might have been right.