In every race, a runner at some point hits his or her wall. The point in which the mind and body have no will to go on, to keep going. The desire to lie down and curl up into a fetal position looks good and inviting.
Today, I've hit my wall--my writers wall. I look at my nanowrimo story and I think: I have a crazy guy looking for Red (my female character). What am I gonna do with him? I don't know. I have a zombie-loving mother with a rifle. What am I gonna do with her? I don't know. Where's Red and Wen (another character in the novel)? I don't know. How are they gonna get out of this mess? I don't know.
I blink. I have no answers.
But it’s your story, you say. You should know what you’re doing. True. It is mine. I am the author. But sadly, I haven’t a clue. The characters in my zombie western novel have led me in directions and along paths I know nothing about.
I do not plot. I do not outline. I allow the story to take me where it will. Sometimes it ends up being a problem. Like now, when writing a nanowrimo type novel (a novel in a month). There is no time for revisions. Not now. Not in November. December, yes. But November no. In November, I have to write, and write quickly, and then I have to commit myself to what has been written and press forward.
My children are in bed and I can't write. I've written myself into a corner, I fear.
The concept is good—I like the twists and turns. It could be a great thing if I can figure out what to do next—the writer behind the concept, not so much.
I need a Pepsi. I have been without for the past 3 days. It's starting to show.