If I'm going by all the other novels I've written, then I have to say that the average word count is about 86,000 for each. I'm at 25,000 basically, and that means I'm more than 25% finished. I'm about 29% finished. Woot!!
Right now, at the end of Chapter 9, I'm about to bring Nick back to the front porch of 1211 W. Garvey to talk with Mercedes about the women who live in the large housing unit. She's explained the behaviors of all the men who live in it, but the women may prove to be the undercurrent of the murky waters that seem so still and quiet above their rocky beds.
I'm keeping MacRae and Ferguson in the picture by adding conversations with them. Posh just met a new helper who will prove instrumental in proving his father's murder was in fact a murder, and maybe he'll get somewhere with the new District Attorney of Canadian County; maybe someone can be investigated and brought to justice. We'll have to see what happens.
For now, suffice it to say I am having a blast writing this particular book. I knew I would. I knew it would be a fun and eventful time for me. I'm making crap up, I'm recalling things that really happened, and I'm just living the life...the life of an author that is, not necessarily the good life. I'm living my life.
One of the things I love about this book is that it can't be too weird or peculiar. Nope, this one is one quirk after the other, and with good cause. I lived that life for a while in a creepy old house that had a history to not only speak of but to keep quiet about. Yep, you guessed it, there really was a 1211, but I can promise you I didn't murder anyone there; he was dead long before I got there.
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