I’ve reached THAT point in the book. Where I am convinced that I’m the worst writer in the world and I’ll never turn this manuscript into something I’m proud of. The first time I encountered this strange dip in enthusiasm for my work-in-progress, I put it down to a blip–I was rewriting the last 100 pages of The Trouble With Fate. Well, I was digging deep there. Of course I was going to feel…not joyful.
Then the same ugly stew of worry tripped me as I sprinted for the end of The Thing About Weres.
So. Not a blip.
This is part of my “writing process”–falling into a horrible, despairing, sleepless angst over the final product.
It’s annoying. I’ve spent most of my life being relatively low maintenance, and now, I’m all drama, drama, drama. Frankly, I’m about as much fun to be around as Anne Boleyn the night before her little neck adjustment.
Everything’s about “the page.” What’s on it, what should go on it, what ISN’T on it.
I want it to be over. Done. Finished. Perfect. But here’s the hangnail on the thumb I’m holding up: I see the scene, and it is everything I want it to be. And then I start writing it. And it’s not what I want it to be.
Which brings us back down to THE PAGE.
I guess Neil Gaiman said it best…