I’ve written a book.
Yep, a full on, 300 page manuscript that I’ve rewritten a good four times. I’ve kvetched, I’ve redone, I’ve rethought, and planned. I’ve spent a good year’s time avoiding the next steps because it involves getting other people to read it. How odd is that? But I’ve recently crossed that hurdle and signed up for crowd-funding so that I can hire an editor, which is no small expense.
The small amount of feedback I’ve had has been mostly positive, though it was put to me that perhaps, having only taken a single writing class, that I was getting ahead of myself, which may be true, but I’m still pursuing the dream. I’ve had to get myself fired up to do these things. A few positive signs here and there keep me going, but I have to say, today I’m hitting a doubt patch.
It’s been a long time since I’ve tried to read a novel just because every book I’ve read lately has had to do with either mental health, writing, publishing, or other non-fiction subjects. Today I started one I’ve been wanting to read for a long time.
Within a few pages, I noticed myself dissecting sentences, picking out and repeating similes, obsessing over structure and taking note of how the scenes opened, the portraits were painted, the wonder of the plot, and I was reminded why I love to read. It also came to my attention that my work is generally not something I would read. I started to compare. It didn’t turn out well for me.
I tend to get intimidated when faced with other people’s work. God knows, that’s how I ended up dropping most of my art classes in college. Painting: someone drew better so what was the point? Out. Writing: someone wrote better, the same. Music, film, photography, all ended the same way, though I still do all of those things in secret because I’m driven to.
When it comes to the book though, I want so much for it to be good. Of course, that’s the point of an editor, to polish. I know my idea is good. I know that there’s something there, I’m just not sure I’m clever enough to write it. I can’t help but think that there’s someone out there who could write my story better, which is a toxic thought really. What came out of me is mine alone, but comparisons are making me doubt.
I’m terrified of having the review come back bad. I’m scared that I can’t do it, but behind all of that there is this need to try. Of course it’s horrid right now. It’s my first attempt at a book, but if I don’t go all the way with it, I know I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll sit and wonder what could have been if I hadn’t been so intimidated, so afraid. I suppose my fear is that it won’t be as good as it could be, that I can’t adequately translate what it is I see in my head, and that is frustrating. I also have trouble handling criticism. I take it as a sign that I’m just not good enough, not to try harder and work on it, but to just quit. Not helpful.
My big dream is that someone, and hopefully more than one, will truly like the story. That’s all anyone who writes really wants in the end, for something we make to translate into someone else’s experience, for the story to be meaningful to someone; a little bit of their life that was considered time well spent and enjoyed.
I suppose my lesson is not to compare. I should celebrate that I wrote a book in the first place, whether it be good or bad, it’s an achievement. I’m just never satisfied with small victories. I need to get to the next step and not stop until it’s the best I can do and all I can do. Then I can truly say I’ve tried. I just wish my brain would get out of my way. In the meantime, I really wish I could sit and enjoy this book! I’m going to try again…
Tangent Off the Lifeline 