Today Kelli Stanley posted on Facebook she'd reached "The End" of her second Miranda Corbie book, "City of Spiders." The next step, she said, was a week of revisions.
A week? I've been revising for over a year off and on (honestly, more on than off). Clearly I'm doing something wrong.
So the coming week will be me, my manuscript, and copious amounts of coffee (and probably a little wine) to see if I can get through this second revision by the end of the week.
Observation #2:
This one is related to the first. When I was a runner, I had a trick to help make distances seem shorter (or go faster). I'd pick a point in the distance and run as fast as I could until I got to it. Always, about half-way there, I'd ask myself "Can I quit yet?" Then I'd ask myself "Are you there yet?" The answer, of course, was always no, so I had to keep on running as fast as I could til I got to the designated spot.
It occurred to me today I can use this trick for completing my manuscript. I ask myself numerous times during the day "Can I quit yet?" and then I ask myself "Are you there yet?" You guessed it, the answer is no. I can't quit til this is done (or I collapse in an exhausted heap).
"It sure seems like the majority of people in the
world think they can write a book. And not only write a book, but write
it as well as a published author. And not only just as well as a
published author, but just as well as bestselling published authors who
are among the elite in terms of building an audience and having their
work catch on with readers. There are lots of people out there who
think it's easy, think they could do it, and all but a handful are
wrong."
It was part of a longer post about writers having difficulty figuring out if their writing is good or not, which you can read here.
The truth is, I'm not sure if I can write a book worthy of publishing. If I do get published, I'm not sure if Diary of Bedlam will be the book that succeeds or whether it will it become one of those awful novels authors talk about that sit in their desk drawers as a reminder of their early failures. Of course I dream it will be a huge success–I fantasize about winning an Edgar and which actors will play my main characters. Then I set aside the fantasy and get down to work, because dreams will only get you so far.
I know the odds are tough and I know I have a lot to learn about the writing craft. But I admit to having blinders on, because if I stopped to worry too long about whether I can write a book that's good enough (and lucky enough) to get published, I'd give up. If I didn't think I could do it eventually, I wouldn't have even started.
And frankly, I'm not fit to do anything else. It's either this or being a barista at Starbucks, or a greeter at Wal-mart (not that I'm dissing any form of gainful employment since I have not been employed, gainfully or not, in ten years).
If I sound desperate, I am. But it is what I'd call controlled desperation. I know I want to write a novel. I know I want to have it published. I am driven by these wants, but drive is not enough. For me, some amount of desperation is necessary to motivate me to move forward. Sure it would be nice to move before the desperation stage, but hell, the only thing that really matters to me is that I'm moving.
When Diary of Bedlam is polished and ready to submit, I'll go back to work on it's sequel, the first draft of which is about 1/3 finished, called Diary of Deceit. But maybe for good measure I should change to working title to Diary of Desperation.
I think a lot about success, and I also think about failure. But since thoughts of failure come more naturally to me than those of success, I'm careful to shut away those niggling "maybe I can't do it" feelings as soon as they rise up. If it turns out I'm wrong and I can't do it, I'll deal with that later. After all, there's a Starbuck's on every corner, and I hear they're hiring (although in this economy, maybe not).
In the meantime, I'll leave you with this video of Howard Jones performing "Things Will Only Get Better" with Ringo Starr and Sheila E.:
The lyrics in verse two seem applicable to writing: "A lonely path, an uphill climb, success or failure will not alter it."
I just finished the last book in the Sunny Randall series by Robert B. Parker. I can't help feeling a sort of sadness about it. Mr. Parker died at age 77 on January 18, 2010, leaving behind a several series and several well-loved characters, including Spenser, Jesse Stone, and of course, Sunny Randall.
I've said before I came late to the Robert B. Parker party, having only picked up my first Spenser novel, The Godwulf Manuscript, after he passed away. I enjoyed it enough to read more, but it wasn't until I began recovering from knee surgery last month that I got around to it and read all of the Sunny Randall books plus a Jesse Stone novel all in the four weeks since.
Having finished all of the Sunny Randall series, I can't help feeling that Sunny, like her creator, was not quite ready to quit. I'll have to complete her story in my own mind, knowing she must've finally achieved the sense of peace with herself she worked so hard at. And, of course, caught a heap more bad guys.
There are still plenty more Robert B. Parker books for me to read, having not even scratched the surface of the Spenser series. But I'll miss Sunny, and hope she's doing well.