On Novels and Self-Indulgent Essays

I wish I could report that I spent the last month diligently finishing the second draft of my novel.

No. Still working on that, but I have passed the 100,000 words mark. I have a feeling that I'll be up to at least 125 once I write the final chapter. I'm halfway through the third from the last right now, which is an incredibly scary place to be. In an ideal world, I could lock myself in my room for 36 hours, not sleeping, just writing, consuming candy and coffee for sustenance and peeing in a jar, until I finished up the final chapters. I feel like I've been in labor for six months, and I want the little bitch out of me already.

It's always the end, when you're finally wrapping up the "masterpiece", that you begin to see all the cracks and issues with the narrative, story, main character, everything. I reached the final descent on the rollercoaster, but I can see more than a few bits of track missing that might derail the whole thing. In order to deter me from declaring this venture a failure, setting myself on fire and dashing out into the street, I started a list of notes in another notebook, bits that need to be tucked in earlier in the narrative. Some say it's bad to dwell on the next draft while still writing the previous one, but I must do something to maintain a base level of sanity.