The correlation between the library Wifi not working and me getting my writing done quickly and with fewer stops and starts continues to be hilarious, pathetic, and infuriating. Writing scenes of high emotional impact continues to be my favourite part of writing novels, and what was meant to be a short scene at the beginning of the chapter ended up being the entire chapter so the book has just expanded by one chapter. But I am still finishing that bloody thing tomorrow, so help me god.
Most of the journey home was spent pondering why, when almost everyone I know who writes now writes Young Adult Fantasy, I am not attempting this genre. I think it’s mostly because I cannot fathom teenagers at all, and because I cannot write from personal experience of adolescence because mine was pathologically abnormal and in most ways not very relatable. On the other hand, should anyone need someone to pen an opus about being an autistic closet homosexual raised by an increasingly out-of-touch orthorexic New Age feminist and locked up in a school for children who aren’t wealthy enough for an Approved School, have social workers and therefore cannot be just ignored, have not broken a law badly enough for a Young Offender’s Institute, and aren’t quite suicidal enough for a Secure Unit… then I humbly submit that I might be able to have a fair go at it.
Then again I would probably write my protagonist with such contempt that it would be impossible to feel any sympathy for her.
Fingers crossed that I manage to put the first draft to bed either today or tomorrow, and can then move on to finishing my sci-fi short story, and to spending an entire day doing nothing but watch Black Books.