In which I contemplate starting writing a new novel before I finish my current one, and try to take my WIP’s feelings into account.
I know I said I wasn’t going to write about writing too much, but I didn’t say I’d never do it. Today is one of those.
Where my writing is at
I’ve got to that point where each edit of my work in progress (WIP) results in fewer and fewer changes, and I can feel I’m near the end. At least at the beginning of the end. Or possibly getting near the beginning of the end.
Hang out in writer circles on this interweb thing for long enough and you’ll hear all the classic reasons people write. Because they’re bursting with stories that are screaming to be told, because they have something to say to the world, because writing keeps them sane in insane times.
Reading these reasons, it’s easy to feel inadequate.
If I don’t write for the same reasons does it mean I’m not a real writer? I’m not filled with stories wriggling inside me like intestinal worms. Does that mean I’m just making stuff up?
I like to think it’s the writing that counts, not the reasons behind it. If you write a stunning story that people love it doesn’t matter if it was driven by a stormy-eyed muse in a flowing chiton or by industrial quantities of coffee and a hard chair.
I think my subconscious wants to help, it really does, but it’s like a toddler that spends more time falling over than running, and it was headed in the wrong direction anyway.
Then I give up and make myself a comforting cup of tea, only to turn back and find the blocks are arranged in a tower that’s colour-coordinated, structurally sound enough to withstand a siege, and elegant enough for a Disney princess.
Okay, maybe it’s not that good. Disney princesses are really picky.