36 pages. I've left 36 pages on the cutting room floor today. Now, instead of 105 pages, my novel is now 69 pages and ready for me to pick it back up again.
I completed the NaNoWriMo project in November with those 36 pages being my rushed, unexpected journey into an ending I did not plan. Nor did particularly like those 36 pages. After sending them to my BFF for her input, and after much consternation and contemplation, I finally made the leap.
Essentially, I'm starting over. It pisses me off, but it also gives me a strange sense of calm, like the 12 inches of blinding white snow blanketing my backyard. I look outside and think how awful and cold, how difficult it is to maneuver through. Writing is as frigid, as horrible and unkind, and absolutely difficult to muddle through.
I've been separated from my book for months now, unable to look at it, unable to wrap my head around the changes I knew I needed to make, but was to afraid to do so. It's time now, and I've finally done it. Now to start fresh.
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