Writing colors my existence.
When I was writing EFFIN’ ALBERT, sometimes words eluded me. Those were my blackest days. When I was inspired and words flowed easy, I was awash in sunshine and daffodils. When I finished ALBERT, I felt hopeful. Not sure what color that is. I guess it doesn’t matter.
Today is grey, both literally and figuratively. Rain and doubt falling in equal measure. I wanted to do justice to those kids, thought I did but now I don’t know. I’m questioning myself today, wondering if I’ve been fooling myself, asking myself: Did I write something good or does it suck? I dragged ALBERT through the mud, wrote in fits and starts, hit a thousand different walls but I persevered and when I finally finished the first draft, I thought I’d created something decent. Now, I’m not so sure. Now, I’m not sure of anything except I’m not happy.
Intellectually, I realize that, for me, doubt comes part and parcel with business of writing, the business of taking a thought and twisting it, chipping away at it, molding it into a story with merit. Wondering if the story is decent, good, more than good–that’s all part of it. Editing, revising that first draft, looking at the story objectively, being willing to consider what betas say and acting on that, reworking or deleting precious scenes–it’s all part of it and if you want to write a great story, a really fine novel you have to be willing to do that, do the work. You have to be willing to listen, to admit that what you wrote isn’t good enough yet. Maybe it won’t ever be but if you don’t try, you’ll never know. You have to move past the grey disappointment. Roll up your sleeves, quit your bitching, dry your tears. Buck up. Move on. Do what needs to be done and I will, I know I will. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that.
Don’t post this, kk.