Rewrite, Resubmit, or Restart?
After reading the first few chapters of my
manuscript in a writer’s group, I mentioned how the last was one of my least
favorites. Something was wrong, I felt. “I don’t like it much.” A woman looked
at me, honestly baffled, “Why?”
It was her favorite, by far. It was also the
oldest. The pages prior had been completely rewritten, over five versions of
the beginning. The truth was, it didn’t have the same pomp for me because it
wasn’t as new and shiny as the rest. But it stayed for a reason.
The submission process goes as expected, but a
shocking result is my lack of interest in writing all together. As I trudge
onward, one step at a time, I look to my next manuscript and consider its
potential, what it lacks, and feel overall… apathetic.
I’ve lost interest in writing over the last few
months. Unlike when I was in the height of my depression, where I didn’t lose
the desire, just the focus, I haven’t thought much about my books or my career.
I’ve been examining my life outside of it.
I came to New York because I didn’t know what I
wanted, and I figured I’d go to the city that has everything. It’s been fun,
but I’m starting to wonder if it’s for me. I love it here, but the high cost of
rent doesn’t seem to make sense for what I really want to be doing…
Creating. Without the pressure of doing it well.
Don’t get me wrong, the challenge of doing it well
is part of the fun. Analyzing the success, editing, tweaking, planning, and the
hopes of having it impact another person are all motivators. But right now I
just want to sit at home and play the violin. I want to quilt. I want to paint.
And yes, I want to write, even though it has rarely crossed my mind.
This the first time I’ve been this broke, this
worried about money. Lucky me, yes? Yes, actually. I do feel grateful that if I
needed a thousand dollars I could find it somehow. Not easily, of course, but I
have some options before I get knocked out on the streets. I knew all my pay
would be going to rent, and I didn’t mind it, thinking of my frugal, minimalist
lifestyle. But what I realize, as I sit here in my small room wishing I could
quilt away for the day, is that if I’m going to live like that, why not be in a
place where I could do so cheaply? Get more time out of my “starving.”
I’d always wanted to live in New York City, but
the stress of money problems doesn’t seem to make sense. On the other hand, I
can’t keep moving. I can’t keep getting up and leaving, never establishing
myself, never taking roots. It’s a part of the reason I feel stressed all of
the time. And, obviously, making money is more about building something—a good
resume, a good reputation, a good foundation of customers and reliability. All
of which is about just sticking to something.
You’ll see this problem with aspiring writers
constantly—they write. They write a lot. But they keep starting over. Keep
scraping the first couple of chapters to fix them, or changing their attention
from one novel to the next, never finishing.
But I’ve also stuck things out longer than I
should have. I tried to endure a bad situation, thinking I could solve it, but
the ingredients were bad from the start.
I’m doing well, surprisingly enough. I’m going to
Ireland in April, I like my job, I like my apartment and my roommate, I have some
friends, some plans for Saint Patty’s day, and this has put me in a position to
really consider what I want, instead of chasing some invisible dragon who very
well may not exist.
I’ve come to an epiphany recently that perhaps my
pursuit of happiness has been targeting my image rather than who I really am. I
won’t criticize it, not as much as the mainstream tends to do, because
everything is about moderation. But maybe instead of guilting myself for not
meeting ridiculous standards, I need to focus on more self-honesty about what
my perfect life—and perfect manuscript—would look like. I was inhibited, in the
past, for not making a good enough impression, for not having any credibility,
but now my credibility and enjoyment is being inhibited by worrying about
appearances just a little too much.
I’m afraid of moving again. I’m afraid of starting the publishing process on a new novel. I’m afraid that I constantly scrap when I really should be revising. But luckily, I have six months to worry about it until my lease is up.
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