Pacing

Here’s another serious post.

Pacing a story is hard.

I suck at it.

I have no idea why. Dialogue? Check. Backstory? Check. Description? Check. POV? Check. Pacing? AAARRRGGGGG.

I’m writing this post because I’ve just realized I have to go back and re-write two chapters. I messed up the pacing and moved the story too quickly to keep the reader’s attention.

I have no idea why I rush, but I have some theories:

1. I’m worried that the world will explode before I get the story written.
2. I’m worried that I’ll die before I get the story written.
3. I want to know what will happen, too. (I’m prone to reading the last chapters of books first because I can’t stand the suspense).

Okay, I’ll admit the first two are a bit dark, but there’s a part of me that worries about the time it’s taking to complete. If I slow things down, how long will it take before the story is finished? Twenty years? I’ve already put in three. I’ve been at this so long that I had to update it with a side note about Twitter bots, for God’s sake. I started this story before Twitter bots were a thing. With as slow as I write, I could still be writing this silly little beach book when I seventy. Yep. I’ll be writing a story about a twenty-one year old when I’m seventy. That’s so messed up.

How do people like Dean Koontz write stories so quickly? I mean, I’m not writing the great American novel here. It ‘s just a fun beach read, for God’s sake.

There are alternatives. I could keep going and finish another steaming pile that will get soundly rejected yet again.

I could quit altogether.

Or I can face my fear of aging, impending mortality, and the fact that, yes, the finality of death ends all our earthly goals, and re-write the chapters.

Who knew that writing could also build character?

But maybe it’s the last one. I can’t stand suspense in reading, so I handicap myself with my writing? Huh. I hadn’t thought of that before. Maybe I need to change my genres… write safe little romances instead of action stories. The kind where the villain is unrequited love and not escaping from Russian henchmen because the first person POV has stolen a shit ton of money.

Oh, but I like escaping from Russian henchmen Unrequited love stories are so sad. I don’t want to be sad, and I don’t want to write sad.

Hmm. There is a lot to think about. Thanks, WordPress, for helping me sort things out.

Now back to the laptop… after I do the laundry, mop the floor, check the mail, fix lunch, vacuum, go to the grocery store, walk the dogs, get everyone settled for dinner, fix dinner, do the dishes, put the laundry away, put everyone to bed… then it’s back to the laptop.