See that book? That one there, that I’m writing? That book is kicking my arse. Seriously. It has pulled off its leather gauntlet, slapped me upside the face (drawing not a little blood), then proven itself the finer marksmen. It has put me in the ground, urinated on my headstone, and sown salt into the bare earth all around so that nothing will ever grow there again.
I know the problem. No outline. I used to hate the things, but that was mostly because I wasn’t using them correctly. Everything good I’ve written recently, published or not, has been outlined. It wasn’t arrogance that made me put this tried and tested method aside for The Weighing of the Heart, not entirely. With it having been previously planned in my mind a couple of years ago, even started as the printed pages above demonstrate, I thought I knew it well enough to plunge boldy in. I was wrong.
Mostly, I was wrong because I’ve either forgotten the detail, or (most likely) hadn’t thought it through as thoroughly as I thought (say three times fast). I know scenes, and the central idea, but there is too much missing. Dexter, the narrator, makes it worse. I enjoy listening to Dex talk, and he does so whether there is plot happening or not. As such, there’s a lot of, fairly entertaining, hot air in the book right now. I struggle to move the plot on, so Dex just shoots the breeze to pass the time. He’s good company, but that’s not the point.
I may have to put this aside, and move to the (fully outlines) novelette that I was going to look at in May. That should give me time to brainstorm and outline, then come back to Dex better armed. I’ll sleep on it, but the way I’m feeling tonight, that’s probably the way I’m going to go.