In other words – how writer’s life is either dipolar disorder or Phoenix raised from its grave.
I spent 5 hours in the library yesterday and just wrote my novel instead of plotting it to pieces. In the evening I came to a grim notion that I have the emotions, characters, close to solid plot, scenes, places (got the street names for last!) and dilemmas, but somehow they aren’t interacting, the lovers are stiff and emotionally barren and oddly I’m still writing the plot that goes around the corner and doesn’t touch the characters at all. Neither are the small signs showing that I had figured out already and reasons why the society is as it is. Like watching jelly wobble on a windy day.
So today I’ve come to my conclusion that I will set the whole written part (1/9th of 100k) aside and start the story from the beginning once more. Because there simply isn’t anything that would show the plot in the character’s lived or vice versa. That’s, what, third time now?
At least I figured it out now, ay? Not when I was in editing stage and read the book as if made of stiff puppets.