Ah, well, once again it's been a while.
I have since expanded Cyborg (the unnamed manuscript in a much earlier post that was over the word limit) into a trilogy. Taking Gini Koch's advice, I'm not working on the next two, but the first one and then leaving it alone. It's actually annoying. There I was, red pen in hand, cutting and reducing. When I next paid attention to my actions, I was on the floor surrounded by the manuscript, note cards, and extra paper - making break points in the original manuscript and plotting the resulting novels. Dolus' work count is low in relation to the genre, but I've about finished the first draft and can work on subplots from there. The only good news is the stuff I cut out remains cut and I'm still trimming 'bad' writing. It makes me feel like I didn't take a step back or expanded the world just to save my words.
But Dolus is on hold now as a new novel takes complete control of my imagination. Once I put enough scenes on paper and run into a block on plot structure, I can return to the distopian based world of cybernetic government agents. I also have to change the WIP title of Stars Collide to something more appropriate. It's taken on a life of its own as the scenes keep coming, some faster than the time I have to write them, and the word count is soaring. I might even finish the first draft before I can return to others. Usually, I work on three or four at a time to keep from being board or to change it up when I hit a block. Not this one. I can't seem to focus on anything else. It's nuts.
Money has since become a huge barrier. In all areas of my life. Now I'm looking at whether it's better to keep the low paying job that lets me write all day or move onto something with a larger paycheck and benefits, but cut my writing time by eight hours. Follow passion or physical comfort? Wait, not just physical comfort. It's keeping the house I inherited. The insurance rates are crazy because I live in a hurricane zone. If I don't have insurance, mortgage forecloses. But my mortgage payments for this four bedroom house are waaaaayyy less than if I had to rent a one bedroom apartment. And not have a place to put my great grandmother's dining room set with dishes, my book collection, the office, using a laundromat to wash clothes.
This is one moment I'd just like life to smack me over the head with a clear answer. It can be literal. Tree limb cracks, wake up with the answer. Anything. As long as it doesn't kill me in the process.
