Speaking of Book Number Two (as it will henceforth be known until I come up with a better title), I have a question. Is it strange to know the exact ending of your novel 40K words before it happens?
Technically, I figured out the ending closer to 60K before it happens, which is just absurd to me. Anytime I've taken on a project of this size I've always had a general idea of where I wanted things to end, but as I've mentioned before, I am NOT a fan of outlining or setting things in stone. I prefer to let stories pan out in front of me with very little concrete framework. The story always seems to flow better that way. Plus, remaining lucid helps me step back and reassess the big question of "What's the worst thing I can do to my character right now?"
This time is different, though, and it bothers me!
Let me preface my frustration so I seem slightly less insane. Book Number Two is a first for me in more ways than one.
- My main character is an adult with adult problems, not an older teen with adult problems.
- My setting is 100% real. Modern day Seattle. Nothing fanciful. No floating kingdoms or underground cities.
- My genre is mystery/sci-fi. Mystery. Yes. Serial killer, handsome detective, intrigue and the whole lot.
My main character is an adult with adult problems. He's also a witch doctor born to a family of practical surgeons, suffers from PTSD and sarcasm, and is a recovering addict who surrounds himself with organic/semi-illegal drugs on a daily basis.
My setting is 100% real. Seattle is my city and I love it, as does my main character. We both recognize its petals, thorns and oddities. Better yet, we're both eager to show off it's true colors -- not just the copious amounts of gray.
My genre is mystery/sci-fi. I'm loving it... except for the fact I know who the killer is (or is it killers?) how they did it, why they did it and who their next victims are. Ugh. I know, don't complain. I was the one who decided this would be a good idea. It is a good idea, a great one even, I just kind of wish I'd gotten to enjoy the mystery side of it all.
I've rambled long enough I think. Here, have the first sentence of Book Number Two as a thank-you-for-listening.
Some men spent their Saturday mornings reading the paper, lazing about in their shorts as they debated whether or not the lawn could go another week without mowing—others spent it hacking their way out of a giant iguana's small intestine.