I’m working on a novel.
“Oh, your first novel!”
No. Technically, this is my 3rd novel. I’ve written two previously, both of which were left to die an unceremonious death, stuff in a 3-ring binder, never to see the light of day again.
This one, though, I have thought through. I love the characters. I love the story. I want to finish it. And it is painful and makes me crazy. I wrote 25k words in November. I wrote a few more in December. In January, my mastermind group helped me conclude that I’d written it in the wrong POV.
I am in the thick of rewriting 30k words from 1st to 3rd person. It’s going great. GREAT.
I’m not at all derailed by researching deep 3rd POV. By obsessively accepting edits from friends who are invested alongside me. By polishing the first 10k words more than they need to be at this point.
Tonight, I’m on chapter 7. And it’s a mess. It’s all wrong. And I’m dissecting it and destroying it and rebuilding it and it is terrible and it is wonderful.
Why do we do this to ourselves?
Writing non-fiction is so different. Poetry. Opinion narratives. Nobody can tell me my emotions are wrong. Nobody can critique the plot structure of my authentic response. You can’t reorder true events.
The amount of control you have in fiction is terrifying. It’s also exhilarating.
I’m going to go finish chapter 7.