Seventy-eight. According to my calendar that is how many days I have left to finish this monstrous project. On Sunday I was thinking about this and decided to take matters into my own hands. I don’t know if it was the four dramatic hours of Die Walküre blasting on the stereo or the myriad cups of espresso, but I managed to push through the last seventy pages of novel and finish the third draft. This may be a romantic embellishment, but I’m pretty sure I shivered when it was over. My first reaction was one of pride. What I perceived at that moment was a better book—a good book, in fact. A book that’s on its way to being publishable.
It goes without saying, however, that this process cannot be that simple. My overwhelming insecurity is still there, if not grown exponentially. I feel like every sentence I read can be interpreted as a massive failure or a huge success. Often when I’m thinking about my novel there’s no middle ground: it’s either brilliant or a lark. In the middle of a conversation about this the other day I reached the conclusion that I have no idea whether my book is garbage or not. Absolutely no clue. And with so little time left on the clock I have set for myself, it makes me more than a little anxious.
There’s a part of me that desperately wants someone to read it, even though I know it’s not ready for that. You might even say that there’s a part of me that’s growing lonely. I find myself wanting to talk about it. I read someone the first sentence the other day. I’ve slowly started revealing clues about the novel’s plot. In some strange way I’m starting to reach out to people. But it’s in no condition to be read. Even without reviewing it I can list off a dozen things that need to be changed or examined. I still have a lot of work ahead of me.
People keep telling me that this is normal, that all writers feel this. I’m trying to believe them. I’m trying not to let my hope be swallowed up doubt. The only thing I can really do is believe what I’m doing is good. The alternative is too terrifying. All I can do is pour every last breath and teardrop and penstroke into the manuscript in front of me—everything else is out of my hands. If I don’t have the talent, I don’t have the talent. I will at least try.
I’m currently at a kind of crossroads. After finishing the third draft I told myself I would take a break. Today I’m questioning that wisdom. The novel is all I can think about anyway, so why shouldn’t I be working on it? Seventy-eight days is not a lot of time to mold the pulp in front of me into a novel worthy of an agent’s cruel eyes. Why not work on it every single moment that I can? As I’ve said before, there’s nothing wrong with a touch of madness.
I’m ready for this to be over.
