Yao Ziyan's words finally made Luo Chuan remember just how many openings he had written on a whim.
Like most authors, he had lost interest in those openings after writing a few thousand or tens of thousands of words, tossing them into a corner to gather dust. If Yao Ziyan had not reminded him, Luo Chuan definitely would not have thought of them anytime soon.
After yawning and stretching, he found something to do today besides resting.
Write and build up a stockpile.
As an author, before opening the writing software and getting to work, one could never do without lofty aspirations—today I'll write thirty thousand words, I'll finish this stretch of the plot, and so on.
But after actually sitting down, he would suddenly realize that reality and ideals always differed. After sitting for a while, his entire body would feel uncomfortable; he would casually take a walk, pour himself a glass of juice, and always want to play games.
This was also why so many authors liked to start work at night. There were too many things to do during the day; only when the night was deep and still could they calm their minds and write in peace.
"Luo Chuan, this is already the fourth time you've poured yourself juice."
Yao Ziyan stared at the Magic Phone screen and spoke without even raising her head. Though most of her attention was on the novel, she could still sense what was happening around her.
"Mm, is that so?"
Luo Chuan took a sip of juice. He had not paid much attention to it. He simply could not sit still and kept wanting to find something else to do.
Most importantly, he was building a stockpile. There was no required word count, so however much he wrote was enough.