I cracked 70,000 words tonight. (60,000 of that was written post-baby.) There's something magical about this point. I'm past the dire bogs of the mid-book, where not only am I convinced the book is worthless but also that I'm never going to finish it and I might as well give up. I can see the end of the book ahead of me, and beyond the sparkling golden paradise of re vision, where I go back and fix all the things I already know are wrong.
It feels so good to be out of the muck. I hate the middle of books because they always, always try to destroy my will to live. I hate the book, I hate myself, I hate everything stopping me from getting through that point. Without an outline or really extreme motivation I just can't make it through middles. They eat me. I've left two books full of potential on the wayside because of the middles, and I went back and restarted Matchbox Girls from scratch because of its middle. Middles suck. I'm not even sure why since presumably they are full of interesting things happening (mine usually are, anyhow). But even the sweetest, most candy-bar-anticipated scene becomes like dust in the mouth when it's in the middle. That's what happened with one of the books I abandoned– got to the scene I'd been anticipating for 1.5 books and oh god, it was just so much bitter unenthralling work, mope, moan, whine, find excuses to do other things.
I think I'm better since those days. I've finished more books. I understand about middles, and I understand about work, and I know what awaits me on the other side of the middle. A finished novel! Something to love and hate and rage at that is, no matter what, a finished novel.