14

So....I've finished. The first draft anyway. Word count ended up being 82902, about 7000 words short of the 90000 I was aiming for, but acceptably close. I don't know why I ever thought I'd overshoot; that was not a pattern that happened when I wrote essays. I was always under, and always had to re-read later to find where I'd missed information. There is at least one chapter that I know needs adding.
Having said that, you could read my novel now and it would make sense. There'd probably be a few plot holes and some things wouldn't make sense or the grammar would be off...but there is a novel, that I have written, that is complete. I'm pretty damn pleased.
What's slowing the pride down a little, I suppose, is the knowledge that I have a lot of work left to do. I managed to get it done a week after my birthday (going away for a week where you can't take your laptop means a close deadline is an impossible one!) so I wrote a book largely before 30 (apart from about 2000 words!) According to the plan now, it goes away until after Christmas...possibly until February, and I work on other projects. After that, the editing process begins. I'll try to update this more often, and I'm going to start entering short story competitions. I have a few ideas bouncing around but I've never been quick at developing story ideas. Unlike some people who collect ideas like magpies and can never focus on one, it takes me a long time to think of story ideas. It's a blessing and a curse, because although I was able to pour all of my focus into my novel without wanting to start another all the time, I have limited short story ideas. Especially because the short stories I like are clever, and clever ideas take some time.

12

Word Count (Tuesday am): 66880
Word Count (Wednesday pm): 68865

Last week did not go to plan. It wasn't too bad, still got the requisite 8500 words in. But we had visitors over the weekend and I struggle to write if it's not completely on my own terms. At present my boyfriend is ill, and as such hanging around watching TV. This makes it tricky to concentrate as we have one big open plan house so I can't really shut myself away from interaction.

I've realised through the course of writing that I need to work on continuity. It's funny, with my writing I seem to go through peaks and troughs of confidence. One minute what I've written is the best thing in the world and everyone sucks but me, the next I suck and I should just give up now. At the moment, I'm in a trough.

I'll try to do a writing prompt next week, though grinding out my words is my current focus. It's 1 month until my 30th, and I need a first draft by then.

11

Starting word count: 58223
Finishing word count: 59750

I did it! 8500 words last week. I've now been challenged that if I manage to write 10,000 words next week, I'll get paid £5. 1500 words a day, seems...doable. Good to start ramping up my word count.
I've finished the one section of my book, so I'm going back and filling in the other sections. Seems much much easier, possibly because I've been working on them in my head while I've been writing the other sections. Either that or writing in general is getting easier. The style in this section's quite different as well though, much more stream of consciousness, bloggy almost.
I'll have to get back to working on some descriptive writing on here soon. I've decided to try my hand at some short story and flash fiction competitions once I finish the novel, just to see how I do. Also to work on my creativity, having one story in my head for the past couple of years means I haven't had many flashes of ideas. Might finish work on my 90s pop song short stories, I really enjoyed the idea of those.

I'm more excited by writing than I have been about anything else in my life. I wish I hadn't stopped when I was younger. I wish I hadn't taken it for granted when I was a teenager. I'm so glad I've come back to it. Writing this novel, whatever happens with it, will be one of the best things I've ever done. I know it's cheesy, but I'm really proud of myself that I've come back and stuck with this. I don't think I've really been properly proud of anything else I've ever done.

10

Word count at start of day: 49707
Word count at end of day: 51425

Getting momentum back is hard. I should really learn how to write when there's noise and distraction, but to be honest I sometimes find it hard when I've got the house to myself and silence. At least I can impose punishment on myself in those cases; the nature of my house means if there's anyone in the house, they're in the same room as me. Open plan is over-rated, my next house has doors.
And preferably a study. God what I'd give for a study. Just a place where, once I close the door, this is the place to work. As it is I've got the end of the kitchen table, and my "work activation ritual" involves moving chairs and getting a cup of tea. It's sort of working. As long as no-one's in.
I've set myself a new challenge. Firstly, I want to have finished my first draft by my 30th birthday. On my 29th I said I would have written a novel by the time I was 30. This has looked variously unlikely over the last 11 months, but right now, if I buckle down, I could do it. It would be really cool to do it.
I can actually do it without upping my daily word count too much. Working on the basis of a 100,000 word novel (the way it's looking right now, probably), I need to write 1700 or so words a day, 5 days a week, for the next 6 weeks. I can normally manage 1000 words in about half an hour, so it shouldn't be too hard. Assuming I don't get distracted. And god am I easily distracted. However, to motivate myself, I'm going to pay my boyfriend £5 every time I fail to meet my weekly 8500 words.
Half a novel written in 6 weeks, when the previous half has taken a year. Here's to determination...

9

46284 words.

I don't know if I want to live or I want to just sleep. Which sounds more depressive than intended. I'm not sad, just tired. First day back from holiday and my body had reverted to what seems to be its natural rhythm of sleeping until 10am and going to bed about midnight. Which does suggest I need more sleep in my routine anyway. But I hate the fact that my life is governed by when someone else dictates I need to be doing things. I wonder if I'd be more productive if instead I stuck with my routine, working later.
Anyway, my writing has been coming along on holiday. My aim now is to try to get 6000 words a week done. Wouldn't quite be done by my birthday but would be finished before Christmas. I'd like to aim for more but that's not really reasonable.

8

Writing is a weirdly intimate act. Other people may read what I've written, but they still don't know what's in my head; even the best described scene will look different in a reader's head than a writer's. It's also a weirdly exciting world that no-one else is interested in. I've recently decided a different character to my intended victim will die. It will make more sense, have more pathos, have more impact. It's the right decision, and it's fundamentally exciting to me. No-one else will care. My boyfriend loves me, but if I told him I'm killing a different character in the book I'm writing he would imagine it's just on a whim, rather than a nervous, ground breaking decision that will change everything. He doesn't imagine I care about these characters, or that I've resisted killing anyone else than my planned victim off, because I don't want to stop writing them. I'd planned to kill him. I hadn't planned anything else. It's a bit like a dream, so very meaningful to the dreamer, boring and weird to anyone else.

7

"What are you looking at?" he slurred drunkenly, standing over the girl with his fists clenched. As if she'd been burnt she quickly stopped looking up at him and stared down into her knees, curled into the foetal position.
"You know it's your fault, don't you?" he asked, kneeling down to bring his face close to hers. His breath stank of alcohol and regret. "If it weren't for you, we'd still be fine. She'd still be here. Instead I'm stuck with you in this shit hole." He lifted an arm without looking back, indicating the one bed flat where they lived.
She didn't move. She knew there was nothing good or helpful she could say now, and that if she curled up it wouldn't hurt as much when he started hitting her. So she stayed tight in a ball, burying her face into her knees. She wished she'd remembered to tie her long hair back, she'd probably lose a few clumps and then they'd make fun of her at school.
He stood up, reached for the bottle on the kitchen table. It was mostly finished. "And I sit here like an idiot, paying for your food, paying for the roof over your head, just to get this ungrateful little bitch," he said his voice aggrieved and pained, and she knew he was winding himself up to hurt her. "I suffer all my life finding work, trying to do right, and all I get is this?"
She was expecting the blow but it still winded her when it came, striking at the base of her ribs, forcing her onto her side. He was wearing the steel toe cap boots. That wouldn't help. He grabbed her by her hair, entangling his fingers in the end and yanking suddenly and hard, and she felt the clump rip from her scalp as she was pulled sideways towards him. Her face was exposed and he punched her hard in the cheekbone, dazing her. That was a surprise. Much as he knew no-one would do anything he didn't normally go for anywhere visible, so everyone would think he was still a doting father, so good for taking the orphan in after her mother died.
It was when the second and third blows came to her face that she realised, too slowly, that this time was different. She wasn't going to be allowed to leave. That this might be the last thing she ever saw. For a moment she considered relaxing to let it happen, but a rebel part of her soul rejected that idea even as it arrived.
She came to her feet and twisted away from his grasp, wincing as the movement tore out more hair. He gave a surprised and outraged shout, she never normally did anything but wait for the blows to stop, but she didn't stop moving. He'd locked the front door on his way in but the bathroom window was open, and she flew into the room. His bullish frame was following, staggering but frighteningly quick. She slammed the door even as he crashed into it and tremblingly managed to turn the lock until it slid into place with a satisfying heft that meant safety. He roared outside and the door shook as he kicked it. She turned to the window; it was small but so was she. There was a 10 foot drop outside. She wasn't wearing shoes or a coat.
The room shook and she heard a hideous cracking as the door buckled. Without another thought she climbed up and out the window. She wouldn't be back in his lifetime.