For the first time in my writing life, in terms of what I’m writing, the possibility of greener pastures are unfathomable.
After a cycle of many ideas, many stories and many drafts, the concept of a greener story beyond the one I’m telling does not exist. After planning, writing, taking breaks and even reading it, I’m more invested in this story than any I’ve started yet. That will likely change when it’s done (and at whatever point that actually is), and the muse and I will move on to the Next Big Thing.
For now, it’s this one. I’m excited by this story and even enjoy the rewrite stage. I love the new developments around the characters and being able to revisit their lives now that I have a better understanding of who they are.
Progress is steady, but not rapid. The pace so far is comparable to my recent months of writing, but it scarcely feels adequate.
One day I’ll send this, a completed manuscript to someone that isn’t reading it for fun or as a favour – completed to the point of feeling the execution does service to the story itself. I know I’m closer to having something I’d consider submitting than I was at the start of the year, and I’m closer than I’ve ever been before. Even having read it, having found a great many holes and much I want to change, I feel close. To get it there, will take time. That’s been a truth since I began. Scrounging for the time to do it in is depressing. I can’t guess at how much real-world time it will be before I’ve reached that point.
I am so grateful for the recognition I’ve received, the interaction with writers and other feedback I get, as well as the opportunities that have been presented to me. In that, I can see better ways forward. I love where my writing life has come to, though the after-hours nature of it is a thorn.
Perhaps a different approach is required.
I’m not sure.
I think this particular story makes the best first-novel of anything I’ve worked on yet, and while the baseline of the idea came about two years ago, it was no more than a footnote in another story until I started planning it last year. It couldn’t have happened earlier, and while timelines tick by and I won’t ever be any young writer as far as recognition holds, the idea was meant for now.
This is the cycle for now, writing when the minutes present themselves, and hoping that nothing appears to steal them away.
Part of it is the inner critic still wrapped up in pretender-land, with that and the internal mindset that suggests I’m not yet doing this ‘for real’ is the most trying part of this battle. Together they’re perhaps a bigger stumbling block than any search for representation or acceptance around my written work, fiction or otherwise.