I’m still at that dawn stage of novel-writing, where it seems like for every 200 words you write, you cut 300 and replace them with a twelve-word sentence.
And the ending has become murky, and sad and filled with levels of things….and I’m not sure who the villain really is anymore.
Meanwhile, I struggle to get into it, but every time I despair, I remind myself that this happens every time, and that I do this for academic writing, too – assailed by doubt, bereft of real ideas, impostor syndrome, depression…it’s all part of the process, apparently.
But it gets better. Every time I hit “SAVE”, it gets a little easier. Every time I force myself to write something – anything – I get a little closer to that groove that I have hit before, where the whole thing just flows out like a magical tapestry, until the story comes to rest on some storm-battered shore called “The End”, and I heave a sigh of regret and joy.
And then, of course, you have to edit the damned thing.
I’m not sure which is worse.