I think it’s been almost four weeks since I started my revision. According to my rough draft, I’m on chapter seventeen. According to my new draft, I’m on chapter ten.
Four weeks. Ten chapters.
It’s not that I wrote a lot of crap. It’s that I wrote a lot of crap crappily. “Just write” is a myth. I’m learning that as I turtle my way through paragraphs. Don’t “just write.” Figure out what you want to write, and why.
Most of all, figure out the how. Otherwise you’ll be buried in ten trees worth of paper, trying to find out what goes where and whether any of it really matters.
The next time I’m writing and I hear that little voice inside of my head saying “this isn’t going to be in the next draft” I’m going to toss my laptop out the window.
Because today that little voice in my head is asking me:
Is this worth it?
I don’t know, little voice. I’m still writing, aren’t I? And I’m still writing about writing. Maybe tomorrow I’ll write about how I wrote about writing. As long as I don’t end up with butt nothing coffee, I can babble something out, right?
The thing is…revisions suck. They are shipped straight to your front door with a little note that says: from the horned violinist downstairs. Now that I’ve opened this package, I can’t help but take a step back and scratch my chin and wonder if the cloud in the sky is truly reachable. Again, the little voice is back.
Writing the story–for the most part–is all lah-de-dah and we frolic in our made-up worlds and hold hands with our made-up people and build robots from the ground without any kind of degree. I could build a robot out of wood.
I could built a robot out of steam.
But the the only frolicking I’m going to do during this revision is around a bonfire. I can already see the embers catching the brisk air. They’ll float up to a bald tree and the entire thing will explode like a croaked phoenix.
I might even roast marshmallows on my manuscript’s charred remains.
I told myself I wouldn’t complain, but I’m complaining. It doesn’t mean I don’t want it. It just means that it sucks right now and I hate it and I wish I could throw the pages off a cliff and shoot each one with a crossbow.
Besides, if I don’t sit here and sulk, all warm and pissy in my bed, then I’m going to wake up and sulk, all warm and pissy in my bed with butt nothing coffee and an empty page.
Empty pages become wraiths, and I don’t like it when they watch me try to sweep up peanut butter
So I’ll try to stay as gag-tastically optimistic as I can. The cloud in the sky might seem unreachable, but it’s there. One day, I
might will find a hard-back in the YA sci-fi section of Barnes & Noble with my picture in the back. I’ll pluck it from the shelf, hand it to M-12 and say “Dreams come true.”
Yes, little voice. It’s all worth it.