You know the feeling that you never dare open your writing. The sickening lurch that everything you have written is about to turn out as garbage?
That was last night. I looked at Poet and I couldn't work out what I was doing and it just looked like a mess. I'm surprised how okay I feel about this. I'm not screaming or anything. I just feel perfectly normal (and that is freaky in itself).
So, I am working my way back up from the start to check how many broken chapter/scene-things I've got and to weave my end threads into the back of the stitches. [cross-stitch metaphor] and I read part one and gosh darn it was rather sucky and I am in a rewrite cycle again (it would be nice to actually get somewhere beyond the first day/night cycle) but Turnbull needed my help.
I think that improved it. Sure as hell helped not to be skipping all over the place - things are still a little jumbled but now you can see the path and understand how Renfield is feeling. That was the worst sentence since "he'd got away from that and Inuvik and now he was thinking about _that_" got thankfully killed dead last night. The quote is approximated, because I hit delete and woo! Suck no more.
On the subject of sucking, Renfield gets sluttier with every rejig/rewrite/plot progession. He's top of the slut league and leaving the rest of the cast trailing in his wake. Ray K is off the starting block with a night with Bubba at the Asylum club, Ray V is getting cold feet and Stella is wondering where the hot make out went cold. Renfield has managed one hotel employee in Toronto, Stanley at the Asylum, one flashback to playing with Mark, some fun in a stairwell, and another really hot flashback with Billy Tallent. Slutbiskets! *huge grin*
Hopefully, I will get back to you guys soon-ish, just need to sort out my two left feet and avoid caffeine.