Me: uggggh I suck so hard at writing this boooook
Me: THERE IS NO MAGIC
Me: NO ONE IS GOING TO DIE
Me: WHAT EVEN IS THE POINT
OH GOD I KNOW THIS FEEL.
How is time supposed to pass if you’re not racing the clock on an adventure to defeat the bad guy and save the world? It’s like, “Oh, well, that was Tuesday and now it’s Halloween and then he spoke to me in November and Thursday evening, we had eggs, WTF.”
I JUST WROTE A SCENE ABOUT A SANDWICH.
This is why, much as I enjoy and admire good contemporary novels, I have never yet written one. Indeed, if the ending third of a certain book seems rushed to some people, it was probably because I was so excited to get to the part I’d been dying to write all along.
(I was also deliberately trying to make that part feel less concrete and real and more of a dizzy rush, so I could call the whole thing into question later on, but that’s another story. Literally.)