The middle is the hardest part of the novel for me. It is the part where I realize that I have been trying to get the story out instead of trying to tell it. I realize the magnitude of what I have taken on, the immense task of trying to craft a narrative with characters that are real and complicated and alive and breathing on the page. I want my readers to love them as much as I do and I want to give them a full life for 300 or so pages. I start to feel tired, weighted down my task, aware that I am nowhere near fully realizing what it is I have set out to do and I am pretty much fumbling in the dark as I write from page to page. I wake up tired, I work tired and I go to bed tired. The task seems daunting and the question of where will the next 150 or so pages comes from gnaws away at me. A small feeling of dread grows in me as I start to admit to myself that I need to go deeper with my characters, taking them to places that I know will hurt them, disappoint them, make their lives harder. But I have to. If everything was rosy, there would be nothing to write, and we grow and learn by what we have to overcome don't we? And besides real life is always harder and stranger than fiction isn't it. I tell myself this to make myself feel better, but it takes me longer each day to get the same amount of pages and the fact that I am actually able to come away with any new pages at all is a small herculean feat.

I have two more weeks to go and then I get a little break over Thanksgiving, when 2 dear friends come to visit. The promise of some fun and frolic motivates me to keep on going, deeper and deeper into the fog, where the middle of my novel lives.

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