I’d really thought I had my word-count right.
I gathered up all the documents and files I’d scattered around—my laptop, a Netbook, my phone, my e-mail draft folder, that scribbled-over credit card bill under the cat—loaded ’em all into the verification window (presumably in the right order, but meh), hoping I wasn’t too far off the 50014 words I’d guesstimated.
I was way off, as it turned out. It was 50572.
Of course, I didn’t really write a novel. I wrote sketchy outlines, a character study or two, and two rather long short stories, the first of which cuts off abruptly at a strange point and is linked to the second by a single sentence: “Meanwhile, from the other side of the author’s subconscious . . . ”
Because if Nanowrimo 2012 has taught me anything,* it’s that when you attempt to write a Police Procedural, there’s only so far ignorance of all but the most basic Law & Order-gleaned police procedures will take you—in fact, it will take you about 28,485 words.**
The rest is . . . a bit right-brained. Like Salvador Dali-grade right-brained.
I’m not sure any of this is salvageable except for the premise of the first story and the crime in the second—neither of which particularly mesh—but I don’t have to decide that right now.
Right now, I have to sleep.
*Besides the undeniable fact that my Internal Censor is a vicious bitch, distracted only by caffeine and shiny plot points.
** Eventually, it will take me to my local police department with a list of questions. Maybe.