I've had it happen before, where I'm in the middle of a novel and things just start flowin with relative ease--all two novels I've written. This one's different, though. I'm a bit more realistic in my expectations now. My prose is improving, but not up to Hemingway standards, certainly. My plot is more thought out, even outlined, though it doesn't contain the twists and turns of a Brandilyn Collins suspense. But I'm getting there.
Writing is patience. You start out with that initial euphoria of "finally going after the dream." After a few rejections, you go into a slump. But, finally, you get to the point where you realize this may actually be a real job (the 2nd job for most of us). You've got two options at that point:
2. Stop whining and write.
Well, I'm here today, so I must have chosen option 2. My current WIP, Murder on the Side, is going well. I'm enjoying my characters, which improves the odds that my readers will, too. I like the plot, the setting. Even the prose doesn't suck too bad.
I don't have one of those little progress meters like my crit partners do on their blogs. I've spent most of my career reporting my progress to somebody. I'd rather ignore how far I have to go and just enjoy the ride. (I suspect my crit partners lie about their actual progress, anyway. Don't tell 'em I said that).
So, I won't tell you how far I have to go or how many chapters I've written. You'll have to wait for the final product. Coming soon to bookshelves everywhere.