ieva melgalve

Yesterday, I was so sick of my novel that at one point I arrived to the conclusion that I don’t like it, I don’t love the theme, I am sick of my characters, I’m not interested in the setting, and what I’d rather do is to blow everything up and end the story in mayhem, failing NaNo 35000 words short.
That idea cheered me up enough to keep thinking about the novel.
Five minutes later, a following inner dialog (and one of the cases where I was desperate enough to call upon my Muse):
- OK. What’s the matter with my writing? Why don’t I write that novel?
- I want to blow stuff up.
(sigh.) – All right, you’ll get to blow stuff up. That hospital, for instance. I played with the thought.
- Great, I’ll blow stuff up!
- But later. Now, we have to write some scenes leading to that.
(sulks.) – Whyyyy?
- Because. Well, I have a character who could blow the hospital up right now, but we can’t do that because Urchin won’t get her pills then. She needs her pills, she just doesn’t know it yet.
- So, you say, no pills?
- Yea. And then, I really don’t know what she’ll do. I mean she could die without them. It’s a time-bomb.
(mumbles.) – What she’d do… What could she do…. Maybe…?

And there I was, writing again. I am still in transitional scenes but now these are to set the bombs up.
Also: you’re not there to help the protagonist. You’re there to give trouble to the protagonist.

Also, a lesson of this morning: setting alarm an hour earlier means waking up half an hour later than I usually do. Argh!