Stressed Out

It was very easy to romanticize writing at two-thirty in the morning when all I wanted to do was sleep but instead I was sat trying to figure out if it was Re M which dealt with vitiating consent to adoption, or if it was really Re P. Now that I am back to writing it has hit me full force that it is definitely not a walk in the park. In fact, there's not much romantic about it other than my undying love for it. The desperate need to whack my head against my desk in an attempt to shake my plot loose from where it seems to have lodged in the crevices of my brain is not romantic. Come to think about it, it is a bit sad.
Yesterday I had to get rid of 8700 words of the book I am working on. And no, that is not a typo, I didn't accidentally add on another zero. I mean it. Eight thousand, seven hundred words had to go. There is a bit of me that's chuffed I was able to spot that I was getting on and on with scenes which were essentially back story and did nothing but slow down the pace of the book. But damn it if I didn't cry a little.
I am going to spend the next two weeks doing something I genuinely hate to do. The dreaded plotting. This is in an effort to not run into problems like this again. I am not sure how well I will handle it the second time around. Plus, there is no need to condemn my mother to cleaning up my brain juices from my desk after a banging session gone bad. This is going to be the most interesting ride ever because I am a Seat of the Pants Writer and plotting has always served no other purpose than helping me lose interest in the story. This, as you must have realized, is a very bad thing.
I am just heading to do my hour long German lessons then I am delving into the world of plotting. I wonder where I put my rosary, I'm going to need the prayers.

Tchuss.