|It's like he's inside my head...|
The Wrong Brother's Bride--finito. It should've been a bigger moment, the marching band, because I spent two or three years thinking I'd probably never write historical fiction again. That's because I'm such a panster, I pretty much pants my whole life. I didn't really stop to think about what was going to happen when I was finished with the Legends & Lovers series. I didn't see another historical romance coming. It blindsided me. In a good way, though.
I started in early April, as you may recall. Just dinking around with it, thinking someday it would get finished, because I was neck-deep in NaNo with The Heckmasters. And then something crazy happened. I got a 5-page critique from an editor who said, if it's finished, send the whole thing. It wasn't finished. It wasn't close to finished. I had intended to finish The Heckmasters are a leisurely pace since I hit my word count goal before April was over. Yeah, um, I'm behind on that because I wrote like a mad man to finish TWBB.
So going into this last weekend, I was still 12k from finishing TWBB. I had this great plan where I would sit in my trusty writing chair with my oh-so-compliant dog, write the last 12k with glorious flare, finish on Sunday, choirs of angels would sing my praises, and pie would rain from the sky. Erm. Didn't quite happen like that.
I sat in my trust chair with a dog that is heartily sick of my computer. He hates it. More than baths, more than that time we took him to the vet and he came home missing a certain part of his anatomy, more than fleas, more than when we go to a store where people might look at him (he's cripplingly shy, just like me. Actually, he's worse). He rolls around, puts his head on my keyboard, put his feet on my chest, sometimes he types before I can stop him. Sometimes it makes sense too. He's typed the following things:
I'm not even joking. The dog is a genius. Sometimes. He often types gibberish. Maybe it makes sense to him. Also, he's either European, or he's into drugs, if the kilo thing is any indication. The results are still out. But Friday night, my husband stayed up really, really, really late. PeeWee woke me up at 10 am, claiming he needed to use the facilities, so I got up, thought about going back to bed and decided, nah, I'd better get to typing.
The upside of a comatose husband? You can get a lot done. Assuming you ply the dog with water (but not so much he has to pee all the time. This is important when you can't trust him to stay in the yard without adult supervision), food (especially cookies if you're eating them too), and lots of hugs and kisses so that he's annoyed that you won't leave him alone. Can you believe that plan worked? It totally did. So I was buzzing along, around 8k closer to my finishing goal at approximately 3:30 CST when my husband emerges from the bedroom. Then he wandered off downstairs and I realized he wasn't coming back any time soon, so I kept going. Sitting there, with a dog that finally gave up, tears blurring my vision because the hero was in a bad spot of trouble and oh, lord, how was he ever going to get out of it? Then I hear:
"That movie is on at 6:35."
But... but... 4k to the finish is right around the corner. !#$%#&, okay. The movie? It was The Host. And it was better than I hoped for. I mean, a little cheesy, yes, but really, it was better than the book. It didn't hurt that Max Irons is hot. I can say that, he's only 3 years younger than me.
On the way home, my mind was abuzz with how to get the hero out of trouble. My husband came up with a solution and I was so excited, I actually pushed him. He gave me a dirty look, but it was okay when I told him he was a genius.
So when we got home, my husband was all, "I thought we were going to watch Lincoln?" And I was all, "Argh! He lived, he wrote a really long proclamation, he got shot in the head, what more do you need to know?" But he put it in anyway and told me I could go to the bedroom if it bothered me. I just turned my mp3 player up louder. And then Tommy Lee Jones starts ranting about some stuff and I was all, "God, I'd rather try to decipher Shakespeare than listen to him go on." And we had a discussion about that guy who played Robert Todd Lincoln, because neither of us could think of his name, but he was in some movie about gods (turns out he was in Clash of the Titans and Immortals, in which he played gods both times) and The Three Muskateers. Luke Evans was the name I was trying to think of, but I was totally wrong. It was Joseph Gordon-Levitt, which was actually my first guess, but I didn't want to say it because I was afraid of sounding stupid. It didn't matter if I sounded stupid, because my husband totally thought it was Luke Evans too.
Needless to say, that was really distracting, but I soldiered on. And wrote a freakin' ending, yes I did. But I was still 1k short. Sunday, PW Monster insistently insisted on going out at 7 am, even though we didn't go to bed until 3 am. My tired brain laid awake after, trying to think of a way to solve the 1k problem. Then I fell asleep again, because, uh, I can function on 4 hours of sleep, but the world doesn't like me when I do. I didn't get up again until 1:30. Upon whence my husband insists we'd better get food if we were going to survive the rest of the week.
By the time we got home and I got back to the computer, I still had no idea how to add that 1k. So I added a scene that was missing. That gave me less than a hundred words. And I said, eh, screw it, put it away and finished reading Inferno. That 1k? It'll come during edits. Or it won't. There's a beginning, a middle, and an ending. It's all good. No fanfare, no feather rippling the water. Just a little novel I like to call The Wrong Brother's Bride.
Oh, yeah. And I still have a synopsis to write. Any takers?