It's not surprising that when I started writing--something I didn't actually get into until attending college--that I worried I might quit halfway through. Normally, this wouldn't seem like such an issue since I did it all the time, but writing a novel is an herculean task and to give up something like this, even if it's only half complete, would make me doubt I could complete anything of substance.
As it turned out, writing was exactly what I needed. When I wasn't writing, I was coming up with new ideas, trying to find clever situations in which to put my characters, hoping I could be surprised by my characters even though I was, in fact, the world's architect. If I didn't write at least a little bit every day, I would have dreams of some of the strangest characters you could imagine. No sane mind comes up with some of the foul cretins that seemed to creep into my head. Then other times, I would dream of going to the grocery store. (As my writing life continued, the latter dreams became the more recurrent).
Somehow or another, I finished 4 books, 3 of which completed a trilogy, and a few partially finished manuscripts for which I'm still nailing down the details. Then came the edits and edits and edits...
As difficult as everyone always said the editing process was, I found this to be the most enjoyable aspect. Even tearing apart the hours of hard work I'd done, nothing compared to the mind-sizzling frustration of staring at my computer for hours on end trying to come up with something clever or unexpected for my characters. With editing, the story is essentially done; only the clean up is left.
Then came the queries followed soon by rejections. (I've discussed this process in earlier posts. If you're curious for my take, check those out.)
And then, I got pregnant.
As if growing another person was too much for my head, my writing started on a decline. I still wrote, and mainly edited, but it was rarely anything new and even more rarely was it worth reading.
Once the little goose was out in the world, I could hardly find the time for eating, so my writing was sadly placed on the burner at my neighbor's home. I knew I would have to eventually come back to the world I created--or possibly create a brand new world--but every time I would feel that elusive bitch (also known as inspiration), sleep seemed to be the more important task.
But without constantly finding some means to get out my pent up writing needs, I became an unruly, barking porcupine. My books had been my outlet. They took me out of the real world--which brought me nothing but rude customers and the fear that there was no good left out there--and put me somewhere greener. Going into Ziagonmia and escaping a world where people believe treating strangers like dirt is acceptable behavior was how I was able to keep myself from committing murder, so it became a necessity for me to get back into writing quickly.
The problem was that I had been so long away from writing, I couldn't seem to sit down at a computer long enough without first checking every social media site I could and googling the most random thoughts in my head. Not to mention the fact that I'd technically finished my trilogy and had no new ideas on the horizon.
So, when my son turned one year old, and I'd settled into a pretty decent schedule, I forced myself back into writing regularly. I started off slowly, by just re-reading my books and from there I edited and then somewhere along the way, I wanted to write something new again (well, if a continuation of the trilogy can be considered new).
I'm still not back to where I used to be--writing chapters in less than a week--but I'm writing new material daily, except when I'm trying to publish another book. During these times, I spend most of my time editing.
Hopefully, I'll be back to my normal writing-self soon and baby number 2 won't send me off track.
Until next time...
I'm Looking Forward to completing another novel this year.
