I'm hovering at 70,000 words. This past month, I've written two new chapters: a historical storyline prologue, and a current day storyline prologue. I think they're turning out very nicely, especially since my three main proofreaders have made profound (as usual) editing suggestions. These prologues will in turn allow me to ease up on the exposition that was weighing down my dialogues and narration.
Once they are completed, I can sit down to write the five-page synopsis that's needed for the writing workshop I'm attending this summer. Once I get that going, I'm going to comb through my first 50 pages again (which the literary agent Mr. Maass will evaluate), then try to finish up my final 3 or 4 chapters that I've left hanging.
Today I feel optimistic about this novel. After brewing inside me for years, I feel that the story is just now beginning to match the mood and ideas I originally intended for it. But on some days, I just hate the whole thing, and wish that I had taken up painting or guitar lessons--at least the reward would be more certain and immediate. I guess I'm just super stubborn, but I've been obsessed with it for so long that I can't put it down now.
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