It’s tempting to start off this communiqué with the phrase, “One thing you learn when you’re writing a novel…” Unfortunately that would imply that I have learned something. I feel this is a lesson you can never really learn—only face repeatedly.
It wasn’t long ago that I thought I only had “six small things” that needed to be changed. It wasn’t long ago that I expressed excitement at being so close to the end. Since then I proclaimed a resounding victory over the fourth draft, printed it out, and started work on the fifth. I kept telling myself it was the home stretch—the last draft. I kept telling myself that it wouldn’t be much longer before I had a completed novel in my hands. Naturally, it was the appropriate time for a crisis.
This week has been a stressful one. I’ve been busy every single night, be it a social event or an errand to run, and it has left me feeling very drained. On top of that I’ve gone through the most demanding week of the year at my day job, given that our fiscal year had to be closed out. On top of that I’m not exercising or eating right. I haven’t been sleeping well. To make things even more interesting, on Wednesday afternoon I almost gave up on my novel.
I’d just gone through chapters four and five and was preparing them for their minor corrections. When I finished reading them I had an uneasy feeling. I went back and read them again and realized they were terrible. This got me thinking about the plot lines that follow from those chapters and before long I’d come to the conclusion that two out of my book’s three central plot lines (and by association characters) were all wrong. To use a tired metaphor I’d found the loose thread and by pulling it had unraveled countless scenes. Everything fell apart (including me). There was so much that needed to be done I thought I would have to start back at the beginning and just rewrite the damn thing. I did what I do best. I sulked. I sulked for the rest of the week.
This morning I woke up feeling a little morose. Because of this stressful week we’ve neglected to clean or wash dishes or even pick up the loose scraps of fabric from furiously trying to put together Halloween costumes. We’re out of fruit. I love fruit. To have no fruit for breakfast is to start the day of all wrong. Still, I resolved to dig myself out of this depression and get back to work. If I’m to come anywhere close to meeting my goal I only have two months to do it. I sat down with my novel and my journal and hashed out a plan.
As you can see the post-it flags have returned. In full force, no less. Instead of six I have twenty-five. They’re also a lovely shade of neon orange which I think carries more urgency than a clean blue. I have scenes to rewrite. I have significant plot elements to alter. I have characters to reexamine. I have hours and hours of work ahead of me. As of right now I estimate that Rebellious Bird has consumed 850 hours of my life. By the end of the year I’ll have surpassed 1,000. But I haven’t given up. The other day I realized just how horrifying it would be if I were to open a blank document and start over. I’ve been working for ten months. I can’t let that ten months be nothing more than just practice, no matter how tempting it is to start with a blank slate. That new document carries so much potential but it’s something I have to resist. Yes it’s horrifying but at the same time it’s invigorating. I have another novel in the back of my mind (actually I have three other novels floating around in there). But I can’t do that. To start all over would be to betray everything I’ve done thus far. When I told myself that I loved my book it was a little premature but it wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t a delusion. I do love this book. I’m emotionally attached to it and not just because it’s something into which I’ve poured 850 hours of work. It’s meaningful to me and I hope it translates into being meaningful to someone else. Even if there are only ten people in the world who read it and even if only one of those ten feels something change within them I will have done something right. I will have accomplished something. That’s all we really want to do isn’t it? Reach out into the dark and get someone to feel what you feel? There are things in my heart that I want to share with people. This is the most effective way I can do that. Language is both a bungling and powerful tool. I can tell you how I feel and it will mean nothing. I can describe how I feel and you will show concern but in the end it means nothing. Yet at the same time I can construct an entirely new world for you to inhabit. My own version of the world. It’s there that you will feel what I feel. Even if it takes 20,000 hours it’s worth the payoff. There are no constraints on what we should do to make ourselves less lonely.
So no, I’m not giving up.
