In a perfect world, my looming deadline wouldn't be looming it at all. It would be sitting out there on February 1st and not bothering me because I would be confident that my book will be complete by then.
Friends, this may come as a shock, but we don't live in a perfect world.
While all around me people are making things merry and bright, I'm over here in my pajama pants, trying to get through the season with unwashed hair and a coffee-induced hand tremor harmonizing with my twitching eyelids.
It is in this state of obvious mental, physical, and emotional disarray that I bring to you the Twelve Days of an Author’s Christmas—Deadline Edition.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my deadline gave to me:
Twelve hours of panic when I realize it's December and I'm nowhere near done with this manuscript. It's not due until February 1st, but if I don't write during the holidays, I'll never make it. So here I am, laptop open, while everyone else is watching "Christmas Vacation."
(Narrator: The math was overly optimistic.)
Eleven brilliant plot ideas that came to me in the shower, which I was absolutely, definitely, 100% going to remember without writing down. Sadly, I remembered none of them. Not a single one.
(Narrator: One of them was brilliant. She'll never know which one.)
Ten minutes of actual writing accomplished between homeschooling, answering emails, quickly checking Instagram, getting more coffee, letting the dog out, staring blankly at the screen, Googling "how long does it take to bleed out" (I'm on a list somewhere), and remembering I never answered that text from yesterday.
(Narrator: Ten minutes was generous. It was closer to four.)
Nine text messages from my writer friends complaining about their deadlines while I complain about mine, because we've convinced ourselves that commiserating counts as being productive.
(Narrator: It does not count as being productive.)
Eight times I've rewritten the same scene because it doesn't make sense. My broody-billionaire hero has had four different motivations, three personality transplants, and I'm starting to think he's just difficult. (He's lovely, y'all. It's me. Not him.)
(Narrator: It was definitely him.)
Seven different spots in my house where I've tried to write—the desk, the couch, the dining room table, the kitchen counter, the library, the firepit, then back to the desk—because surely a change of location will make the words flow better. Sadly, this hasn't worked at all.
(Narrator: The desk was fine all along, but the firepit was a solid contender.)
Six cups of coffee, which explains why I'm writing a kiss scene that I'll have to completely delete tomorrow because apparently my hero is also somehow holding a gun, opening a door, AND caressing her face simultaneously. He's very talented.
(Narrator: If she’d stopped at three it would have been okay. Maybe.)
FIVE THOUSAND WORDS TO GO! (This is a lie. It's actually a lot more than 5K, but I'm in denial and denial is a powerful motivator in December.)
(Narrator: It was more than a lot more. It was soooo many more words. Her denial game is strong.)
Four Pinterest tabs open for "easy Christmas crafts" and "simple holiday meals" because of course I suddenly feel compelled to make everything. From scratch. Well, everything except this story. Apparently, I don't feel like making that at all.
(Narrator: Those tabs will still be open in March.)
Three hours spent arguing with my heroine because she refuses to do what I need her to do in this scene. She's supposed to trust the hero. She doesn't want to. We're at an impasse. She's fictional. I'm losing. But I think I can get her to see reason.
(Narrator: She 100% lost.)
Two completely different versions of chapter twelve because I can't decide which direction to go, so I'm keeping both and pretending I'll "figure it out later." (I will not figure it out later. February 1st me is going to be SO mad at December me.)
(Narrator: February 1st Lynn is going to be mad about a lot of things.)
And a plot hole so big Santa could drive his sleigh through it. My timeline is off (surprise, surprise) and nothing makes sense anymore. This is a Dumpster fire bright enough to be picked up on satellites, y'all.
(Narrator: NASA called. They have questions.)
Odds are good that the tree will still be up as I type "The End" at 11:57 PM on January 31st.
But I have hope that both a festive and meaningful Christmas AND a completed book will happen!
Merry Christmas to each of you, but especially those on deadline.
May your word counts be high and your plot holes be fixable.
We'll plan better next year.
(Narrator: She says this every year. She will not plan better next year.)
Grace and peace,
Lynn
TWEETABLE
Lynn H. Blackburn is the award-winning author of Unknown Threat, Malicious Intent, and Under Fire, as well as the Dive Team Investigations series. She loves writing swoon-worthy southern suspense because her childhood fantasy was to become a spy, but her grown-up reality is that she's a huge chicken and would have been caught on her first mission. She prefers to live vicariously through her characters by putting them into terrifying situations while she's sitting at home in her pajamas! She lives in Simpsonville, South Carolina, with her true love, Brian, and their three children. Learn more at www.lynnhblackburn.com.
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