Killed a Tree to Write a Book

 

Today I printed out the uncompleted draft of the possibly endless novel I've been writing, off and on (mostly off), for years.  

So this is what 89,000 words, 280 pages, looks like when you print it out.  It's a big stack, and drained an entire printer cartridge. (Note to self: buy less crappy printer someday).  

There are, I am aware, massive problems that need to be corrected. The largest of these is writing at least 50 pages to complete the (in the words of Anne Lamott) shitty first draft.  There are also many, many hanging and sometimes contradictory plot threads that require trimming and weaving.  

I am hoping that being able to hold the book in my hands and scribble on the pages will allow me to hold it in my head and actually finish it.  Aspirations are low: I've no dreams of publication much less fame, fortune, and a Pulitzer.  I just want to finish it because I need to know what happens to these characters, need to figure it out, if only for myself.