Hustle and (No) Flow

So I’m writing a book.

Actually, I’ve written a book.  It’s done.  Mostly done.  Three-quarters done.  The done part is in second draft, and the remaining quarter is a fucking mess.

I’m trying to enjoy it.

Sometimes wordsSeriously.  I am so stuck.  I wrote like a demon since November, in the groove and full of Flow.  Now I’m busy with a section that is so central to the novel, it’s kind of horrifying I paid so little attention to it.  I’ve already written myself a stern note for the next novel:  Dumbass, if your story includes a crime, have the perpetrator and their motive completely planned out FIRST.  It sucks trying to work it in effectively after the fact.

Sounds pretty textbook, right?  I wonder why I didn’t think of it.  Actually I know why:  I wasn’t writing to publish before.  I was just tinkering.  Now I’m writing with intention.  I’m writing with a goal.  I’m writing to fucking finish this thing, get the story out of my head and out of my stomach and channeled somewhere where it might do some good.  I have to write this section.  I have to write it well.  I have to do this.

This is hard.  Really hard.  I sent the section to my editor, who takes no prisoners, and a few days later I realized I’d given her a galley ship of prisoners.  I hauled it back into port.  “It’s not working for me.  I’m not sure what it is, but this isn’t it.”

Snoopy editing

I’m writing every day.  I put that hour in, no matter what.  But Flow is in short supply right now.  It’s a fight for every sentence.  Sometimes for every word.  I’m writing by hand a lot, just to shake things up.  I’m pacing around, doing a lot of Zentangles just to keep my mind open.

I’m trying to enjoy it.

Why?  Because this is me stuck.  This is me having a hard time.  I’m trying to stop and pay attention to what this is like.  Not fight it.  If I’m going to be a writer, this is going to happen.  I already know what I’m like when the Flow is flowing and I’m writing easily.  This is me struggling.  This is me having to write, or there will be no book.  This counts.  Just like the two thousand words written in half an hour counts, the paltry two sentences covered in blood count.  This all counts.  This is all part of it.

I will write this.

It will be really really hard to write this.

It will kick ass.

This sucks.

I’m trying to enjoy it.

snoopy

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This entry was posted in Thinks.

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