3,026 words written this week.
Most of those are on the novel, but about a third are edits on the short story I wrote back at the SoCal Writers Conference in September.
Reading the story now, I think I like it more than I did before. Not necessarily the language the story’s told in; I can see plot holes and awkward phrasing. But the story itself: The characters and the setting, how the protagonist’s heart gets broken, and how she pieces herself back together. That’s what I’m in love with.
A good sign, maybe? Certainly it motivates me to finish, to edit and polish the story until it’s the best version I can produce.
But it also means I might miss flaws in the telling. I have to beware of liking my own voice too much, instead of the voices of the characters.
How do you balance being critical of the work versus liking it enough to keep going? Do you tend to err on the side of hatred, or do you fall too much in love with your work?