Round Two

So March 2013. I finished my first novel draft. It kicked my ass up and down the block, but I did it. I turned off all distractions for two weeks and wrote 50k words. I sprinted to that finish line, and then ... I had a finished novel draft. I had a physical set of pages with my words on them, illuminating my story. In that moment, with my hands splayed on that brick of a manuscript, I felt like I could do anything.

And then, for almost two years, I proceeded to get stuck.

Pretty disappointing. You figure when you set out to reach goals that the effort won't exhaust your will for further work. It's definitely not supposed to swallow the certainties you've held for granted. Positively clung to, if we're going to be honest.

So, my certainties. In 2011, I figured out that I wanted to be a writer. An AUTHOR. After a lifetime of trying to force myself  to be happy in the family business, I cut the cord and decided I was going to do what made me happy for once, and that's telling stories. Telling good stories with good prose. Yeah, I'm not going to lie -- I get a real thrill when I craft a tight sentence. Something that's both efficient and resonant? Fantastic.

Anyway, I read books, I studied obsessively. I listened to webcasts and took notes, like a Real Fucking Winner. I sunk myself into the future of my goal; I got nice and familiar with it (as familiar as you can get studying an abstract concept, anyway). I figured once I finished my draft the hard part would be over.

Ah, naiveté.

What actually happened was I hit the wall -- hard. I spun my wheels in the proverbial mud of my draft's complete lack of quality. I sent it to a few friends for some opinions, and while they all loved it, I wasn't satisfied. It wasn't good enough, there were too many holes, the writing was too labored, on and on and on. The more I tried to dig in and edit, the more I realized my manuscript was broken. And there's only so much you can do for an irrevocably broken draft.

Basically, I sunk under the weight of disillusionment. I couldn't edit this stupid thing, so what business did I have telling myself I wanted to do this as a professional? I went back to writing fanfic, because it's safe and there's a crowd of people who enjoy my fanfic, and the stakes are so comfortable. It's not my career, I would shrug. What's the worst that could happen? A bad review? If there's concrit in it, I suck that baby dry and use it to make my writing stronger. If it's a flame, I feel hurt and upset for a few hours and then move on. Original writing is a whole ' nother ball game. Getting my original draft rejected? That's personal. 

I freaked out. I didn't do any original writing for almost a year -- Fernando and I moved to Oregon anyway, and it took us a few months to get settled. But then we were settled and I still wasn't ready to start writing original stuff. I started to feel guilty -- as I should have! I was being a piece of chicken shit, and frankly I'm too old for it. Time's a wastin'. I saw something on my tumblr dash, a post asserting that no writing is wasted, and little shit that I am, I gave myself a justification --oh I'm learning right now, I told myself. I'm learning how to be better! This is a practice project, to show myself that I can do it. And since I'm writing, I'm still technically working toward my goal!  

What a load, right?

But it's almost two years after finishing my first novel draft, and I still have nothing to show for it. I stopped my career for an entire year because ... why? Because I'm scared, because I'm fragile. Because rejection scares the shit out of me. Because sinking in my entire earnest effort into something and getting it thrown back in my face is terrifying. But ... I'm going to keep working anyway. It's time to shake off the cobwebs and get back to work.

Back to that broken draft. I love my idea, I love the characters. I have stacks and pages and piles of worldbuilding. I figure why not start from scratch and write it again? I started this book in 2011 and in the four years since then, I've been writing almost nonstop. Even in my depression, I wrote. Safe stuff, nice stuff -- but I was working even then. I had to try to improve, if I was going to justify this whole sabbatical. Anyway, now I'm sitting here at the start of 2015, and I've got another four years of experience under my belt. I know more about what I'm trying to say, and I know better ways of saying it. Now, I'm better equipped to do this thing for real.

So for the last two weeks of January, I am outlining and taking notes. Come Feb 1, I start this again -- and this time, it's not going to take me two years. I'm putting all my other projects on hold until this draft is done. My goal/estimate is May, which will take some real focused work. I'm telling myself that I can do it. I believe that I can do it, which is the smart thing -- what kind of dope hamstrings themselves before they even start?

My point is, I've decided to revive this blog. In a weird way, I feel accountable to it. I started this damn thing four years ago and I'm still working. Still trying.