I was going to be all, yay plain sailing, I'm outta the woods, everything feels like it's falling into place, because - for a few days - it was. It did feel like that. The shaky first half, during which I was constantly wondering if I was even telling the right story, let alone telling it well, was finally paying dividends. I was almost at my goal of 80,000 words (that's not the entire draft, mind, just what I thought I could achieve in the 12 weeks I was out here), and after flexing its muscle every day for two solid months, writing itself was coming more easily, rather than scrape my way towards my daily word count goal I was swooping past it in a matter of hours. I am already thinking about the next draft; what needs to be taken away, and added to, so that it starts to take shape and all the joints fuse. It's in there, in the rough mess of the current draft, like a Russian doll. I even managed to write up a short synopsis, just a paragraph, but that's the first time I've been able to do it in almost two years. I'm three quarters in, and, despite a few changes, it roughly follows the plan I devised before coming out here and is about to get to the good bit (ie the end), when it all wraps up and makes total sense.
Then I woke up today and it was all terrible. Sigh.
Word count this week: 11,170 Second draft so far: 78,284 First draft: 128,661