I’m working on a prequel to my short story ‘Grave Bargains’ at the moment. Its a novella called ‘Bedouin Boy’.
I started this project out of irritability and boredom. It was early December. I’d just finished NaNoWriMo, and I needed something to tide me over until the New Year when I would resume normal programming with my writing projects.
In the last week I have smashed out two thirds of the story. It’s nearly done, or at least I think it is. Or hope it is. Writing is not a game for those that can’t handle incompleteness, and sometimes I swear I’m in the wrong game.
Last week, the inspiration and plot development was flowing out of me like lava almost 24/7. Now, I’m almost at the end, but the perfect ending has not yet crafted itself in my imagination yet. After the inspiration running so hot last week, it feels kind of strange- and frustrating- that I can’t seem to get the ending out.
This was supposed to be a fun project for me to potter along with between Christmas and New Year, but I’ve somehow managed to make it not fun somewhere along the way. As the inspiration has flowed, I’ve felt my inner critic subtly pushing me more and more for completion. Before Christmas, before Christmas, it screams.
I can’t bear the thought of getting to January 1st and resuming normal programming when I HAVEN’T FINISHED this last project (gasp).
Oh and then I’m going to rewrite Grave Bargains. So when I think about it, even if I do finish Bedouin Boy by Christmas, I’m nowhere near the end just yet.