Needles, Haystacks, and Somehow we find a Good Stories
I used to love revising--that part of writing, once the initial crap was written, where you come back and make the story better. Now, it just makes me want to throw my computer against the wall. Or maybe my head. Or my entire body.
What was I thinking? Write a novel... I mean, what good would that do a mom with less time to take a shower in the morning than when the house is on fire? I think I was delusional. Or just crazy.
This part of writing--revising--is supposed to do many things. Make the story stronger, better, cohesive. It is supposed to bring everything to life, and really show what you are made of. Right now, I think I should trash the entire manuscript, mix a margarita, and settle down for a nice long movie before crashing into a deep slumber that won't allow me to wake up until 10 tomorrow morning (yeah, in my dreams. Never happen with a class-ridden husband and toddler under 3 years old).
Sorry to piss and moan, but if cut any more scenes or read any more garbage, I might wonder why I ever decided to put pen to paper to begin this journey into novelhood (or pursue a professional career in the writing field). Really--this befuddlement, this anger, this frustration--I know is normal in my flow of writing. THIS time it just happens to be a bigger struggle than in the past. And there are more than a few reasons (fear of failure, desire to impress any editor or agent willing to take a chance on this no-name author, a need to find a creative outlet...)--but this last week has had me filled with more doubt than I thought possible. Okay, I always doubt my writing ability, don't all authors? But still--I am in a rut. A dangerous slope of deleting, bashing, editing to the point of losing any sight of muse in the near future, and of giving up (for a while) on this book.
So, when I ask for someone--ANYONE--to give the strength to move on--I am really asking for you to find my muse, send her packing back home, back here in my kitchen with a large pot of black coffee to share and let's get back to business. I have a manuscript to deliver.
What was I thinking? Write a novel... I mean, what good would that do a mom with less time to take a shower in the morning than when the house is on fire? I think I was delusional. Or just crazy.
This part of writing--revising--is supposed to do many things. Make the story stronger, better, cohesive. It is supposed to bring everything to life, and really show what you are made of. Right now, I think I should trash the entire manuscript, mix a margarita, and settle down for a nice long movie before crashing into a deep slumber that won't allow me to wake up until 10 tomorrow morning (yeah, in my dreams. Never happen with a class-ridden husband and toddler under 3 years old).
Sorry to piss and moan, but if cut any more scenes or read any more garbage, I might wonder why I ever decided to put pen to paper to begin this journey into novelhood (or pursue a professional career in the writing field). Really--this befuddlement, this anger, this frustration--I know is normal in my flow of writing. THIS time it just happens to be a bigger struggle than in the past. And there are more than a few reasons (fear of failure, desire to impress any editor or agent willing to take a chance on this no-name author, a need to find a creative outlet...)--but this last week has had me filled with more doubt than I thought possible. Okay, I always doubt my writing ability, don't all authors? But still--I am in a rut. A dangerous slope of deleting, bashing, editing to the point of losing any sight of muse in the near future, and of giving up (for a while) on this book.
So, when I ask for someone--ANYONE--to give the strength to move on--I am really asking for you to find my muse, send her packing back home, back here in my kitchen with a large pot of black coffee to share and let's get back to business. I have a manuscript to deliver.
