67,378 words on White Wolf, and I'm in that dreaded middle distance. Beginnings are thrilling, endings are a relief and a realization of all your hard work. But the middle is drudgery, even when you love what you're doing. After about the 20k word mark, it starts to feel like work.
But in a way, this whole book is a beginning. It being the first in a series. Everything is fresh; nothing is old and tired.
The things I'm enjoying the most:
The words. This one of those rare, joyous projects in which I can scroll to any page, any scene, and find myself so happy with the way the words have laid themselves out. That's when it feels inspired, and meant-to-be, and the right thing to be writing at the right moment. That's the best feeling in the middle of a WIP; I love it.
The way it's not tidy. The words are, for sure, those are precise and careful. But the story is boiling over like a pot on the stove, running in directions that make it hard on the genre labels, and taking it's sweet time, spreading out, turning to caramel in its own way. Long, slow-burning, with that creeping sort of dread that builds and builds.
Five years ago, two, even just one year ago, I wouldn't have been ready to write this book. All the books I've written up until now have been an amazing kind of practice for a series of this scope, so I'm feeling really grateful for all the words that have come before; from the Walkers to Walking Wounded, all have prepared me to be a writer who, though scared of the enormity, is just reckless enough to try and tackle this mountain.
This is, I apologize, the boring part for readers, when all I can say is "I'm still writing," and I can't wait for the day, soon, when I say that it's done and ready for your Kindles and bookshelves. Though it sometimes feels like it, I know that middle distance doesn't last all that long.