Fretting over the dark space and the distance I kept between me and the computer, I’ve been frowning at my wip, actively refusing to work on it.
I think I always knew what the problem was and it was not the shorter days, colder nights, or the boiler that doesn’t. When Clarissa asked if I wanted to read her thoughts on my current wip on her Blog or in an email, I panicked. I’ve been known to canvas the opinions of strangers in the street (well, library), so the strength of the feeling was unexpected. I had begun to fear that focussed should be spelled selfish; dedicated reeked of fanaticism and that patient was just another word for foolish. Writing was an anti-social activity, not a great adventure.
So, the odds against finding an agent and getting published were long, I knew that rejection was part of the process, but that was the problem: I thought it would be one part of the process. Could rejection be the sum total of everything I’d learned about writing, while writing? No.
THINGS I HAVE LEARNED:
- written is not the same as completed
- query and submission are multi-layered misery
- being happy about others success is an oily and impure emotion
- the competition starts with yourself in every doubt and misplaced comma
- success is a struggle not a right
Done wallowing. Time to find backbone. I have notebooks full of ideas and they deserve someone who is determined and keen – brave enough to write them. Right now, I need to go and get some sleep tomorrow will be a long day of writing.
250 words Elle's Blogfest is about the hook. The 250 words the average reader gives you to tempt them into the world you have woven. The blog has about that many words from several works. For a book I'm not writing I know now every twist in this convoluted line.
“We can go tomorrow. If you are up early enough. On the train at ten o’clock.”The boy who lay on the polished boards, moved the dinosaurs one at a time, from a circle into a straight line. This was not a quick task. He ran his finger from the claw, across the breast, up the neck. At the mouth he deviated from the line he marked, he raised his finger and placed it back on the plastic toy above the nose, the he continued. The trail was finished only when his hand ran down the empty floor board. Then he picked up the next model in his collection and moved it into its place in the line. The sensation pleased him, right and true. Unique, each time as his finger skimmed the surface of the toys. The rough surface, worn smooth in places amazed, amused him. How unexpected. The shapes: smooth, rough, gnarled: the light and shade loomed large. His head, in line with the top edge of each dinosaur maximised the difference between the here and the space beyond. The shapes form accentuated by the discordant jumble beyond. The here and the jagged edged toys filled his being. Provided warmth and companionship enabled him to maintain his stability, his place in the space that was not self. He: chest to hard board; stomach to chill-breeze blown line; knee to knot and digging nail: he was MARTIN. Mar and tin and floor. To him, the slow accumulation of possessions was peace, and an extraordinary joy.