With nothing much to do this past week or so at work (we're still only two weeks into the fall semester, with no placement tests scheduled) and no big project to work on, in desperation I've been writing on White Rose to keep myself occupied. I haven't typed up any of what I've written so far, but it's most of a 70-page spiral notebook, front and back pages, college ruled. I figure I've written a good 7,500 words, but I may be overestimating.
The book is probably about 60,000 words long by now, or will be when I type all that mess up, and I only just got Rose to the big city. She and her companions still have to cross the rest of the sea of grass, visit a remote city in the mountains that may have been destroyed by something or another, find a reclusive wizard to help them, and travel to their ultimate destination somewhere in the heart of the mountains, there to have the gigantic climax in which Rose and her friends Save the World, or at least do enough saving for this book; naturally, this kind of book requires a sequel. All that while the forces of evil are hot on their heels. Remember, White Rose is not meant to be an innovative book. It's not even meant to be a particularly good book, which is good, because it's not.
I have been wondering why I'm laboring over this mess when it's obvious I'm writing an instant trunk novel. That is, when I finish White Rose, odds are good I'll set it aside and never let anyone read it. It's not even good writing practice, since I'm not even working very hard to make the prose decent. Admittedly, it's not horrible--in fact it's actually pretty readable--but it's so very, very trite.
Except for the were-zebras, of course. They're pretty cool. And unexpected, even to me.