Sometimes your novel dies.
You know precisely what I’m talking about. You’re standing there – well, usually sitting, but I do have a standing desk – typing away, the novel is going great guns, and suddenly… nothing.
There was life there, a spark of interest, you knew what was going to happen next chapter, and you were dying to write it and unfold every nuance. And suddenly there’s nothing you’d rather do than clean the kitchen, scrub the toilets, or even rotate the cat.
Worse, when the desire to write strikes, it’s always a new and shiny thing...
We know exactly what she means.
When we started Pershing's War:1919 we saw Chauchat armed Doughboys hammering away at German trenches. 30,000 words later... we see nothing.
This is when you find out if you're really a writer. When the gleam is gone, when the buzz has left, can you keep on going to the finish?
Fortunately, we've been at this a long time. So we're not really worried.
Writing Patton's combined arms attack in the Ruhr should be fun.