Not long ago I finished my slow and laborious reading of Rebellious Bird. As I mentioned previously I endeavored to read each chapter aloud twice and I followed this through to its end. It was more helpful than I ever thought possible. I uncovered numerous problems, discordant sentences, melodramatic passages, grammatical errors, and poorly threaded plot elements. My manuscript is overrun with written corrections and I find this very satisfying. It means whatever I did worked.
I took a brief break to write a short story (which I never actually wrote) and visit San Francisco. When I returned I momentarily feared that I’d forgotten how to write or even think about writing. I was happy to find out that I was wrong, and on this past Sunday sat down in my favorite chair and started reading again. This time I’m going through more quickly, as in not reading each chapter aloud multiple times. I want to get a feel for the novel as a whole, and so far it’s working. I’m approaching its middle and haven’t yet run into any horrible surprises.
Yet I’m noticing something. I’m finding that I’m essentially suspended in a terrible state of limbo: I cannot form any definite opinion on what I’ve written. I can read one page and feel that little electric shiver of pride and then I can read the next and feel like I’ve wasted the last eight and a half months of my life. It’s not that the quality of the book changes from page to page. No—it’s more likely that I’m experiencing a kind of literary bipolar disorder. My feelings on the book are flippant and fickle. I hate it and I love it. It’s a waste of time and it’s my best work. I want to show someone and I want to burn it. In short, I can’t be trusted.
That is the fundamental root of this late stage of the process: I can no longer be trusted to gauge the value of my work. I’ve been working so hard and so long and with so narrow of a lens that I can’t see the novel for what it is anymore. I feel infected. I can’t get away from it. I can’t separate myself from it. I can’t fathom doing anything else and yet I can’t stand the sight of it. I crave a quiet corner where I can work on it and I get sick thinking about reading another chapter. We’ve been living in a symbiotic relationship for so long that I can’t form any logical or objective judgments. This is what needs to happen: someone else needs to read it. Unfortunately, a side-effect of my growing insecurity is an absolute terror of someone reading it. With it comes a horrifying value judgment—the inevitable consequence I have until now managed to ignore. It’s a novel. Someone has to read it eventually. I just never thought it would be so soon.
But someone has to read it. That’s the only logical solution. I will continue working on the third draft until I’m satisfied that all the necessary corrections will be made. Once I have a new manuscript I’ll hand it over. I don’t know who will read it. The only logical person would be an exact copy of myself who knows nothing about the novel. I’ll have to find a reasonable substitute.
Wish me luck.
Mistrustfully yours,
-P.
