So yesterday, in a blaze of something suspiciously like glory, I finished the zero draft of the next Bannon & Clare, The Red Plague Affair. There are holes and sloppy bits and it needs serious atmosphere poured into the chinks between dialogue and action, but it’s done. It is no longer a terrible unfinished book.
Which means that today will be spent collapsed on the floor and drooling, while my throbbing head (seriously, the zero clocks in at 60K words, 8 of which forced their way through my tender cranium yesterday in a skidding slide for the finish) slowly cools. I may take myself to lunch somewhere, if the annoyance of driving doesn’t seem an insurmountable difficulty. I have to power-wash the inside of my skull today, for tomorrow I go back to line-edits on the all-new YA. I suppose I should talk about that…
…but not quite yet. I have a breakfast to accomplish, a schoolbus to get the Little Prince on, and some drooling to do. Oh, the glory of this writing life.
Over and out.
The “zero draft” is the initial finished corpse of a story. It’s not perfect, it’s messy as hell, but it’s DONE. It gets set aside to rest for two weeks to a month, then I go back and revise it to make it a “first” draft that someone else–my beta or my editor–can read.