Man, I am so lethargic lately. I think I’m STILL decompressing from the first draft of Your Mom. I was going to say that I have never had a novel kick my butt as hard as that one has, but then I was looking through old folders and found a very early draft of Cracked Up to Be (a pre-queried draft), and I was shocked–shocked–at its roughness and how much of it was left to the delete key. The work involved was comparable to the work I’ve been doing.
And don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t shocked because I think I’m that skilled a writer (who is? I mean besides Batman–we all know Batman gets it right the first time), but because until now I have been harbouring this strange delusion that writing Cracked Up to Be was the most agreeable novel writing experience EVAR. It wasn’t. It was, surprise, surprise, as difficult as it usually is.
So I’ve spent all day wondering: why did I forget that?!
To a certain extent, I always romanticize the writing of my novels, like immediately after they’re done. When writing is good, it’s really good. I hold onto that, forget the rest, start a new book, stay in The Writing is Good Zone as long as possible… and then I’m always a little surprised when it gets hard. And then I have that epiphany, ooh yeah, it’s always this hard–but it’s okay because it’s always this hard! So that’s how it works for me and I can’t complain because it’s always worked for me and the whole experience usually levels out into one that is pretty A+ and equals a finished novel.
For some reason, while drafting Your Mom, I never had that ooh yeah, it’s always this hard epiphany.
Which made it even harder.
Maybe it got lost sometime in June, finding myself in a world where my grandfather was no longer alive. I guess everything before the sixth seems like it was a better time, writing, just being–it was directly after his death that writing got miserable actually–and I guess I do have to allow myself that lapse… but basically I am really annoyed that I spent the hardest parts of that manuscript wondering what was wrong with me and this novel that hosts an idea that I loved and still love so much because I was so sure every novel before it had been so easy and fun and agreeable–when it was really just par for the course.
So I guess the greiving process made eking towards the first draft finish line one of the most difficult things I’ve done lately. It just seems like it was so preventable in one way (I feel like I should’ve realized this sooner), but not in another (how can you realize that sooner?). I don’t know. I was just thinking about it and I want to acknowledge that and I want to remember it.
I’m making a bunch of notes for the second, new and improved draft of YM, and I’m glad I’m doing it from this side of uhm, that personal writing epiphany I’ve decided to share with all of you, because I’m really looking forward to it.
Even the usual hard parts.
I wonder if any of that made sense.
In other news! I am both heartened and horrified by the amount of people who have entered to win a galley of Cracked Up to Be (and there’s still time if you haven’t!). Heartened because… oh my gosh, people have entered to win a galley presumably because they want one, but horrified because I want each one of you to have one and it’s just not possible. Maybe horrified isn’t the right way to put it, though. HORRENDOUSLY GUILTY. That’s it. I am horrendously guilty that I can’t give all you wonderful bbs a galley. I have loved every single YO gracing the comment field. You guys. Are so cool.
Also, yesterday, on the Y&R, Noah Newman came back from camp and he has AGED ABOUT SEVEN TO TEN YEARS. And Victor has been drinking Tequila in Mexico for like, ten days straight now since Sabrina died and everyone is still looking for him (if they’d just ask me they’d KNOW). And Phyllis is evicting Amber and Daniel is dating Colleen! And the Ouija Board says Kevin and Janna’s relationship is doomed! DOOOMED!!!
What. Don’t look at me that way. It is how I decompress.