Been working on my sixth novel again, the one I’ve been hammering away at since April.

I had a long period during the end of Spring term where I got almost no work done, and since classes let out for summer I’ve been pretty much writing whenever I feel up to it.

I’m currently at about 33,000 words and I anticipate a length of about 60k-70k words by the time I’m done, though I often overestimate my final word counts and typically put out something in the range of 50K to 52K, just enough that my work counts as a novel by most standards. I tend to write books that are fairly quick-paced and dense with ideas, and I write in a small market sector that is actually favorable to shorter books, so the 80K minimum imposed by most publishers is no issue for me.

I really feel like this book wants to be written for its own sake. Writing, for me, is a liminal act. I become someone else, something else, not myself nor Phil nor anyone else by name, but an archetype telling stories that drift freely like specks of dust between the Koinos Kosmos and the Idios Kosmos.

Some of my books, I feel, have been waiting many years to be written.


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