I spent six months of 2012 arguing with myself over whether I am a novelist. It was a nasty, drawn-out battle that creaked into 2013 with no clear winner. As of January 1 I was eager to have the decision behind me so I could quickly come up with some suitable resolutions and get on with my life.
Not so fast.
Somewhere in the second week of the year I started thinking about some advice I picked up in the last year -- write a bad novel, a shitty novel, but finish one of the half-written ones on the shelf. I can't remember exactly who told me this. Perhaps it was my writing buddy Debby Gaal, herself half way through her second novel (the first is complete and, from the parts I've read, quite good). I also kept thinking about another piece of advice -- don't start working on your goals for the year on January 1 but on January 15 -- give yourself a little bit of runway to get going.
I decided I liked both pieces of advice.
So on January 15 I pulled a book with the working title of "Comfortably Numb" off the shelf. 150 pages, more or less; 40,000 words, more or less. With the beginning well developed, the final chapter written and much of the second half left to write. I had an idea of what would happen in those pages when I put this novel aside about two years ago and I turned away from it not in frustration but because of the excitement of another project. [That other project, which I work-shopped at Squaw last summer and received encouraging feedback on, is what propelled me into the six-month argument with myself.]
So what about it?
I pulled it off the shelf, opened the file on my computer and told myself I would just make the hand-written edits on the first two chapters that I had already marked the last time I read the hard copy. I started and to my surprise, my stomach didn't turn and my palms didn't get sweaty. In fact, when I finished, I felt like I could have done more. And I spent the rest of the day in a nice, calm place -- the place that it used to be EASY for me to be after writing but which has been elusive for months now.
So I did another two chapters the next day. And the next. Etcetera. '
I think I'm back.
Are there clunky sentences? Yes. Are there scenes that need to be fleshed out? Yes. Do I really understand my protagonist? No. But I'm getting to know her and I don't hate her. I'm even a little intrigued.
Intrigued enough to write an entire shitty novel about her? Perhaps.
