Sometimes I'm bursting with words to share for my Friday Fricassee. And sometimes words are elusive.
Welcome to my elusive Friday!
Here's the thing. I'm often talking about the ebb and flow of this journey, right? Reminding you to tough it through the hard times, exhorting you to keep writing despite what your emotions are doing, and attempting to be a "glue" of sorts that sticks us all together.
Well, I'm toughing it through "I want to walk away forever" this week. I'm not emotional, I'm not depressed, I'm not ranting and throwing things. (Believe it or not, I think I've grown past all that.) I am, simply, done.
You know what I mean, right? That "done" feeling.
As in, I'm done.
(Wow. Keep using the same word and it loses meaning. Maybe that's my answer. Done done done done done done...)
It's the "I can't do this anymore" syndrome. (I know you're nodding your head! I just know it!)
"I can't write another novel."
"I can't go through any more rejection."
"I can't deal with this tunnel-with-no-light-at-the-end."
But I'm doing something pretty interesting in order to combat it. (What, you thought I would take this lying down?)
In the wake of having finished what turned out to be a difficult first draft (it's been two weeks since I finished and I still can't stand the thought of starting revisions), I have pulled out--wait for it--my very first novel.
Yes, that novel. The one that is SO BAD that I will have to leave instructions in my will for someone to destroy it. The one that marked the beginning of my journey as a serious writer; the one that lit my fire.
Know what's special about that horrible-awful-no-good tome? (All 127,000 words of it??) It's infused with the passion of writing from a purely creative place. I had no idea about point of view, pacing, or purple prose. I'd never heard of an inciting incident; didn't know what "character arc" meant.
But. I knew what I loved: fantasy. I knew how to lose myself in another world; I knew the sort of journeys and adventures were inherent to this genre.
I even chose "writing music" for the process--a CD of Italian Renaissance music that, for years after I'd pitched the novel into the abyss, brought me immediately back to the world and its characters.
So I've pulled out the music. And I've pulled out the novel. And I am going to completely rewrite it.
(Because there's no other way to approach this. It's that bad.)
You know what? The absolute joy of losing myself in this world is immeasurable. I turn on the music and my stomach drops. I close my eyes and my characters are there, waiting to be transformed.
I haven't begun the actual writing yet, because I'm having to re-plot so much. Rethink so much. Throw away so much.
This is what I need right now--to write something completely for myself. It's so healing.
Next week, I'm going on an overnight writing getaway with a fellow writer. My goal is to have the plot stuff worked out so that I can spend that precious time writing the novel that is healing me.
So, that's me, really.
I want to walk away forever. Instead, I'm rewriting something that reminds me why I love to write stories.
I'll let you know how it goes.
(And thanks for being a safety net. Because you are. And I need that, just like you do.)