Sometimes writing sucks.
As a “new” writer (who’s been working on a book for about six years, off and on) sometimes writing REALLY sucks.
Unpublished novelists live between two worlds of thought. On certain days, we’re brilliant geniuses. We are the undiscovered J. K. Rowling, Anne Rice, and Stephen King. On those days, we feel like once our books are finished, publishers will be stepping over each other to thrust million dollar advances in our faces using words like, “merchandise royalties” and “movie rights.” On other days . . . it seems as if we’ve just wasted the last SIX YEARS of our lives writing a story no one will ever be interested in EVER, which should be printed off only to be burned in a barrel and then bombed with a nuclear warhead.
Today I am leaning toward printing off my book and calling in the warhead.
Every once and a while the stars align. I get a day off while the hellions are IN SCHOOL. These days are what it’s all about. I have *gasp* a whole SIX HOURS to write, uninterrupted, before they come back home and start scavenging the cupboards for sustenance like a pack of clumsy wildebeests.
I plan for these days all week.
I have THREE chapters left to write, people. THREE.
At the end of the summer, in September, I had FIVE.
“So, what’s the hold up?” you may ask.
Given the proper attention each chapter should take about a week to hash out. Sometimes it takes longer. Sometimes a lot longer, depending on the hellions and our schedule (factor in Christmas, storm days, my “real” job, a few sick days, and carry the three). So, lately, each chapter has taken . . . about two months.
Finding time to write is hard. Aspiring novelists are a breed of people who come home from work, make dinner, take care of the house (and, in my case, shovel copious amounts of snow), spend time with the hellions, or dogs . . . or . . . the shopping channel, and then flick our computers on and go to work all over again: on our awful, stupid, (and sometimes utterly brilliant) books.
But, this week, I really thought I could scratch one out. Get one more chapter out of my head and onto the screen.
This week I sat down to write and . . .
I stared at a blinking cursor for six hours. Well, that’s not entirely true. I checked my email. I went to town on Twitter. I cleaned the house and did two loads of laundry. I watched a few cat videos on Facebook.
AND I deleted two thousand words from my latest draft.
So today, I made backwards progress. Today my book sucks, and it’s never going to be finished. The beginning is still pretty good, and the middle, well, the middle’s actually pretty awesome, but the ending is a pile of garbage that smells like something that smells really bad, that smells like something . . . I CAN’T THINK OF RIGHT NOW, BECAUSE I’M NOT A REAL WRITER, OKAY?!?
Today, I’m not an author. I’m not even an aspiring author.
But, I’m still going to try again tomorrow.