My main character? I don't like her. She won't do a thing I want her too. I am like seven thousand words behind schedule because she's a pain in the potatoes. I keep thinking, "It doesn't matter. Just write." It doesn't have to be a GOOD story - just one that takes circa 50,000 words to tell. But I don't want to tell her story anymore. This is fascinating to me. I've been thinking about her story every day for months and I've been waiting to see what's going to happen and a measley 2,000 words in - her story is boring. Yawn. Sigh. Go clean the toilet bowl instead.
Worse? Sweet Hubby thoughtfully (without realizing that I'm not allowing myself to read fiction this month while I'm supposed to be writing it) brought home Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman. It is torture to see it sitting there beside my bed, unread.
I'm not sure you'll hear from me for a day or two (yeah, yeah, yeah - she's said that before) while I trick my boring saint into doing remotely interesting.