It’s almost depressing how far behind I am right now. I couldn’t bring myself to write for two full days, and I wasted most of today, too. I realized that I diverged pretty radically from my outline on a few points, so now I’m kind of making up the plot as I go. I have some vague idea where the ending is going to be and I’m writing towards it as I can, but writing a novel is sort of like swimming across a fast-moving river. At the end of the 50k words I’ll be on the far bank, but there’s no telling how far I’ll be swept down river from where I started, so I’m not exactly sure where I’ll end up. I guess that excitement is part of the point of all this. What am I, a philosopher? Meh, maybe. Maybe that’s why my story is so boring.