Monday, May 4, 2015
I'll Miss You, PJ's.
For the first few days, I've been taking it slow. Pacing myself and scouring over the dreaded document that is my novel outline and the first rough draft of doom. I always find it difficult to go straight back into what I was creating. Especially if I wasn't eating, breathing, and sleeping the specific idea. Instead, what I've been trying to do is start small, since I have a habit of trying to do everything at once. I've been writing some poetry, short stories, or even something personal like a journal entry (which I suck at by the way). This seems to be helping me get back into the zen flow of words and ideas. Even if I have to bang at my keyboard like an ape.
Which brings me to my next topic: rewriting. For me, this is the first time I've written a novel with this much of a word count. I've spent most of my half-splintered writing life focusing on short stories and poetry. It's only recently that I've been able to experience the joy and sadistic nature of pumping out this much work into something big and expansive. I'm far from done and at times I feel like a complete noob that's shooting wildly into the sky with blanks, hoping to hit my mark, I know that all the hard work is worth it though. It will be the first time I followed through with such a writing endeavor and I look forward to the gauntlet. I even have some chain mail armor too.
I often wonder if this is the path that many writers follow. The twisting road of uncertainty with something you create and how much you'll have to change it after you get into the rewrite phase. Is it normal to be frightened that it will be a piece of garbage when you read it to yourself for the first time? Will you be able to polish that garbage until it becomes something more than you imagined it could be? (I like to imagine the Toxic Avenger in this scenario. He might be a freak of nature, but he still has a pretty pink tutu and a heart of gold, right?) Sometimes I feel like I'm taking a part of myself and trying to create something out of the mess of words in my loud mind. It's a scary thought that the story might not be what I imagined at all but I suppose it's even more frightening to know the flip-side: never finishing the novel.
The further I get myself sucked in, the more curious I am about where it will end up. I will try to embrace the rewrite and the changes I'll need to make. I'm a little frightened of it but I'm ready for the experience. I suppose I'll cross that messy bridge of brambles and vines when I come to it. Pruning away each bit to the ideal image I have with my chainsaw and scissor-hands. I've always wanted my own scissor-hands.