Did you ever write 50 pages of a novel and realize you just wrote 50 pages of backstory? Yeah, that was my spring break.
I wanted to do a whole Middlesex thing where I'd go way back to birth and childhood in order to explain where the character is and how she got to be that way--and she's a little bit of supernatural, by the way. But the teen years wound up reading like a YA novel--and I'm not writing a YA novel, much as I love the genre. And the whole thing just seemed irrelevant to the story at hand, the crux, the conflict. You know, what's important. Her mommy and daddy and grandma--who cares?
On the bright side, at least now I know what happened and I can say it's Hemingway's iceberg theory. But honestly, it feels like a waste of time.
To cheer myself up, I am baking chocolate chip cookies.