I have gotten to the point where I am too close to my novel. Like an artist, I need a chance to step back from my book and look at it from afar. I cannot remember everything that has happened, I have no sense of perception, or how a reader would enjoy my words, and I have no clue whether or not the pace is good. I feel as though my face is pressed within an inch of the page of a book and I can only read one word at a time. I am beginning, once again, to doubt my work. My solace is that during my first draft – which I never managed to finish – I began doubting around 40,000 words. Now I have 54,000 words and I am only just starting to get uneasy. This counts as progress.
Maybe it is because the lack of sleep that comes with writing is starting to get to me, or maybe the turning of the weather is causing me to go grumpy, but either one I am beginning to feel discontented. I am just glad I have a weekend coming up with nothing planned other than the odd chore or two. I am going to sleep in, watch movies, finish reading the Harry Potter series for the billionth time, and, of course, write.
I have decided that even though my close proximity to my novel is giving me a headache, I will continue to the end of this draft. I will write sightlessly, blinded by the words, until I have reached the end of my novel. I am far better off than I was at this point last time at least. And once the draft has been completed, I can set it aside for two or three weeks – this might prove to be the impossible part – and try not to think about it. After that… I’m going to sit down and read it, as if were not my own. I’m going to evaluate it, study it, and, most likely, tear it apart again. Hopefully I will also enjoy it. If I don’t… I’m screwed.
I can see no other paths in front of me but the ones that lead towards being an author or journalist. I have not considered other paths – I will not consider them. In the back of my mind, there’s a little voice screeching ‘you better succeed with plan A, clueless, cause you have no plan B.’ This is true. I have just the one plan. It’s rather like the feeling that comes to me when I’m playing tag and my enemies have surrounded me, circling in. I see the gap between them and I run towards it, knowing that there is no hesitating; I will either make it or I won’t and there’s no point considering the latter til it happens. In fact, just writing that down, as if there’s even a possibility of me not making it, seems disloyal to my determination.
I will become an author. I have to. Without words, I am nothing. Spending my life without writing would be like spending my life without breathing. It would be in defiance to everything I am. No matter how difficult it ever is to write, I will keep writing. This current discontentment is just another hurdle, and I will jump. There’s no point hesitating. I will either make it or I’ll die trying. This is not melodramatic. It is truth. I will be an author or I will try to be an author until the breath fades from my lungs and I pass from this life. I was born to write.
You can see my determination – my insanity? – through the process of this blog post. I started writing this with the idea of telling you all that I am too close to my novel and I might need to take a break and step back from it. I ended this post on the note that I will never, in a million years, give up writing, and that – screw my discontentment and my tiredness – I will triumph.
On that note, I think it’s time to end this blog. I’ve got to work writing.