Last night at dinner, my oldest son called dibs on the first copy of Bryony's prequel when it's done.
I laughed. I've barely begun it.
"I'll be sending it to you from the nursing home," I said.
He pointed his fork at at me. "So hurry up and write it."
If only it was that simple.
Much has changed since I wrote the first three drafts of the Bryony series. My schedule's tighter with paying jobs (a good thing), while my household assistances (i.e. children) are aging out of their understudy roles and into their adult lives. All the manuscript editing that accompanies a novel on its way to publication eats up plenty of time, too.
While those are good reasons (excuses?) for not spending entire weekends before my attic desktop in an over-caffeinated fictional bliss, a harder truth eyeballs me and says, "You're afraid to start over."
Not afraid, I argue back. But definitely hesitant.
It's been over a year since I completed Bryony's third book, which ends the series, but in the meantime, I've done a lot of editing and rejoiced in the polishing of my work. Once you've experienced the fun of entertaining someone with your words, it's hard to step back and write something really awful, but that's foundational nature of first drafts. That's why their called "first." And "drafts."
And while my writing assignments require I write first drafts all day long, the material, at its source, is not mine. It doesn't spring from my imagination. Digesting your own bad writing is truly a humbling experience, and one I've not had to face for some time.
When ideas overflow and spill out, I become impatient at a life that doesn't allow for spontaneous composing when the muse demands it. When I do carve out that time and creativity doesn't immediately flow, I can easily fill those hours with other writing projects and feel justified doing so.
The answer? Not sure, but I know one thing. I WILL eventually write it.
Because I have to.
I laughed. I've barely begun it.
"I'll be sending it to you from the nursing home," I said.
He pointed his fork at at me. "So hurry up and write it."
If only it was that simple.
Much has changed since I wrote the first three drafts of the Bryony series. My schedule's tighter with paying jobs (a good thing), while my household assistances (i.e. children) are aging out of their understudy roles and into their adult lives. All the manuscript editing that accompanies a novel on its way to publication eats up plenty of time, too.
While those are good reasons (excuses?) for not spending entire weekends before my attic desktop in an over-caffeinated fictional bliss, a harder truth eyeballs me and says, "You're afraid to start over."
Not afraid, I argue back. But definitely hesitant.
It's been over a year since I completed Bryony's third book, which ends the series, but in the meantime, I've done a lot of editing and rejoiced in the polishing of my work. Once you've experienced the fun of entertaining someone with your words, it's hard to step back and write something really awful, but that's foundational nature of first drafts. That's why their called "first." And "drafts."
And while my writing assignments require I write first drafts all day long, the material, at its source, is not mine. It doesn't spring from my imagination. Digesting your own bad writing is truly a humbling experience, and one I've not had to face for some time.
When ideas overflow and spill out, I become impatient at a life that doesn't allow for spontaneous composing when the muse demands it. When I do carve out that time and creativity doesn't immediately flow, I can easily fill those hours with other writing projects and feel justified doing so.
The answer? Not sure, but I know one thing. I WILL eventually write it.
Because I have to.
No comments:
Post a Comment