Well.
I just finished the second book in the novel. It doesn’t end on a high note, to say the least. And I’m starting to realize, given what’s coming next in the third (and final) book, that I’m writing a fairly sad and melancholy novel. With some funny bits, like the dragon that sings songs from ‘My Fair Lady’ and the little girl’s experiment with third-person-singular narration. And there’s a fair amount of scary things as well.
I’m trying very hard at this point not to think tooo much about whether or not it’s any good or well written (I suspect it has its fair share of rough edges). I just want to finish it.
I can see the end of the tunnel but it is a long way off and I don’t know that I’m going to get there by my deadline this summer. There is a lot left to write. I know most of it already — I know what happens and in what order and where it’s all going — but there are plenty of places where things could turn off onto a side avenue I hadn’t expected.
I was reading through a very large stack of reference materials a few nights ago — pages and pages on mythology and gods and the underworld and Dante and you name it — and while I wasn’t surprised by how much I didn’t know (they could fill a library with what I don’t know and many people have), I was surprised to find how much of what I’ve written has parallels to myth . . . much of it unaware and unconscious.
Little connections here and there that made me wonder who was writing this thing, after all? Coincidence doesn’t come close to covering it, that feeling that, somehow, something larger than my diseased wit was being tapped.
Anyways. I’m done for the night and it’s time for bed.
Two down, one to go.
Tomorrow, I start Book Three.