Here's the part where I say crappy things about my writing. Where I complain about my characters and my plot and the pain of imperfect, unedited prose.
Here's where I don't care.
I can see how people fall out of love with their novels at this point. Cramming 50,000 words and all the expectations for the success of a story you've idealized to the point of perfection into ONE month is ridiculous.
I've spent days away from my work, cursing it, trying to figure out ways to kill everyone. I've spent hours at a time, without food or cell phone to distract me, plotting ways for them to fall in love. I've spent an entire year figuring out the plot of this story, but I won't go there...
The update? I actually have chapters. Instead of one long rambling free write document, I have simultaneous separation and cohesion. Still lots of confusion, but I don't mind it so far.
I'm miles ahead of where I started when I began this month. Even though my word count is under half of where I need to be in seven days, I'm okay. My stick is staying on the ice.
Current word count: 15541.