My book has gotten bigger than I wanted it to.
It seemed like such a nice, little idea: take a bit of family lore that no one seems to know much about and make up the details. I thought it was a smallish story, a domestic piece. Admittedly, it was quite a dramatic little bit: threatened suicide thwarts a marriage, but still, I expected to tell it in 85,000 words or so.
After all, I'd written two other books, and they were both around 85,000 words. I figured that was my comfortable length.
So, I've written 65,000 or so words into this one. And the end is nowhere in sight. In fact, I suspect I'm
(Sigh). I really didn't want to take on something quite that large. Up until about seven years ago, I hadn't written anything longer than fifty pages. Novels are still pretty daunting creatures. Epic novels? Holy crap!
One of my critique group friends suggested thinking of it as more than one book. That helps a lot. There are already some clear and natural breaks in the story that could be End of Book One and End of Book Two. So maybe I'm actually writing three or more books.
And I love this story. It might be the best thing I ever write. It's definitely the best thing I've written so far. It's just . .. when I got on this boat, I thought it was a skiff, not the Titanic! Let's hope it doesn't sink me!