Writers who are new to the game—who haven't yet been thrown back on their haunches with the sheer enormity of the learning curve before them—can lay down an enormous amount of words in a single setting.
They're free, and if their feet don't touch the ground, so what? They are creating the greatest work of verbal imagery since . . . well, since forever. They are basking under a rare and unimaginable (to all of those non-artistic folk, anyway) light. They are the newest, as yet undiscovered, treasures of the publishing world.
I know this, how? Because that new writer's name was Peg.
Let's go back . . .
At some point, my eyes begin to get adjusted to this strange new light. This writerly light that had placed me atop pedestals (for a few days at least) is now shifting, at least to me. It's betraying my birthright with something called Craft. The daunting spectacle of POV and backstory, MRUs and GMCs, hooks and sagging middles, scene structure and that pesky thing called grammar, all begin to rain their tentacles down on my fresh, green, Spirit. And my Spirit becomes paralyzed. Belief has been sucked out and replaced with mind-numbing, creativity-breaking, Need for Education. Aaargh.
Somewhere along in here, word count drops about 90%. And if it moves at all, it goes down.
Sound familiar, anyone?
But then, after some fitful starts and stops, something begins to happen. The butterfly begins to emerge from the cocoon of Writing 101. There's a pattern to her wings, a purpose to her day. She knows ever so much more than she did as a caterpillar. She can step out—or fly out—with the confidence that now the words of her warped mind (she's a Suspense Butterfly) will meet their intended target without fail.
And word count increases.
CR: Dead On by Robert W. Walker. This book puts a fully-realized character in your lap from the beginning. So far, so good. It will hit the stands mid-July.
It's all better with friends.