In the interest of full disclosure, here’s an update of my (meager) previous postings:
— Simon and Garfunkel never made it to Edmonton.
— My daughter, even though she had her own pair, ended up with my shoes.
— I gave up on trying to rewrite that old mystery novel. Somethings should be left in the box.
— Harlequin rejected my romance novel at the query/synopsis stage.
— I never did hear from Mr. Really Big Agent about Stone Cloud. I guess that means no. Too bad. I’m pretty sure the world could really use another vampire novel.
Strangely, the only thing that upsets me is the shoes.
Today: 12 degrees C or about 53 degrees F Sunny
I took a day and a half off. It was great. But an opening line popped into my head, begging me to write it. So I did.
I am working on rewriting a mystery I wrote twenty years ago. I loved the idea then; I was obsessed by it. I wrote the bulk of it in ten days and it was short-listed for a provincial novel-writing competition. But I was never happy with it, and always thought I would get back to it. In the meantime, I put it aside and went on to other things. But this line jumped out at me and I was hooked.
I think I have a hard copy of the old manuscript somewhere. I don’t know whether to look for it or not. Not that it matters. What I’m writing now is very different from what I wrote then. The plot is basically the same, but the details will be different, as well as the voice. I wrote 7,000 words this weekend. Not a bad start.
That’s Lola at three months. She is now nine months old
and desperately needs a haircut.
So I figured out what pushes me through revision, after revision, after revision . . . . My eagerness to get on to the next story impatiently waiting to be told. I notice some writers have several things going at once–a couple of novels, a few short stories. I’m not sure how they do it. I can’t. One thing at a time, please. Divide loyalties does not a healthy manuscript make. I’m loopy enough as it is, I don’t need to push myself over the edge, thank you very much.
Revision on romance novel goes well, better than I expected, especially since I have figured out the end. But it’s a romance, you say. Piece of cake. They live happily ever after. Not so fast, I say. There is happily ever after–who gives a fig? Not a good happily ever after, that one. Must do better . . . so I revise some more until I get to HAPPILY EVER AFTER. I’m getting there . . . .
I love writing. Really, I do. Revising, however, is another story. Somedays I’d rather eat worms. How is it that something that flowed out of my brain at the rate of a non-stop high-speed train now just sits at the platform like the little-engine-that-couldn’t? Doesn’t it know I have things to do, queries to write, agents to email?
Please, someone explain this to me.