‘He’s not the Messiah…’

I’m not doing what I should be doing. I’m putting off my work, opting instead to carry on with Other Things. I feel guilt.

The work in question is, of course, my latest revision of Night Shift. As I’ve said previously, I did a rewrite for an agent and got a ‘disappointed’ (mentally converted into maybe a D minus) back. The good news is that she wants me to have another go. The bad news… Well, there’s no bad news as such, save the damage to my ego and confidence. But I’m not getting on with it. Not yet.

Writing is a job and you can’t always choose when to work, can’t summon up the perfect mood – or muse – at will. So feeling a bit down is no reason not to crack on. But writing is an emotional game. I’ve been slogging at that damn novel for far too long now and I think I need a little more time to get myself together. We all need time away from a project so we can come back to it with fresh eyes, and mine are still a little jaded. Right now I can’t face starting from scratch; can’t face drawing up proper plans, character profiles and the like. In other words I can’t face doing what I should have started off by doing.

The other factor is that I’m not – have not – been idle. As soon as Night Shift went winging to the agent back in February I pulled out Australis and set about a good hard editing. Now, again at the risk of repeating myself, Australis has been a problem child since it was a few months old. I’ve said before: it just wasn’t working. For reasons I’ve never quite been able to decipher it was – well, it was just dull.

So as soon as NS was dispatched I accessed that cobweb-covered file on the hard drive and started to rip Australis to shreds; to really get my teeth into it and tear it into its component pieces. With rare determination I attacked the damn thing and completely redrew the characters, added new ones (and a new murder) to the pot.

This has involved a lot of new writing – it looks as if most of the last half will actually be fresh, virgin words. Almost like starting over. And it’s still not finished yet; maybe I’ve another month at current speeds. And, as ever, I’m barely ahead of the pen in terms of plotting. I’m still working out where I’m going, groping in the dark with only a flickering candle spitting and spilling hot wax onto my fingers for illumination.

I’ve decided – I think this is sensible – that it’s better to finish this draft of Australis before going back to NS. That’ll mean I’m not dropping my plot-reins in mid-flow and also gives me time to read up on the flaws that made the agent ask me for more work. Gives me time to study, to think – and to not-think, an underrated exercise – and to come to the work with enthusiasm and decisiveness.

I think this is sensible. But I feel terribly guilty.

This is all part of the learning process. When you read articles about ‘How Author X first got into print,’ you meet the facts. They tell you – honestly – how they went about it. What these articles rarely tell you is how it felt on their journey. How many times they wanted to give up. How many times they stared in despondence at a blank screen – and then summoned up the will to get the hell on with it. 

It hurts. It hurts so damn much. And it’s all the worse because you know there are myriad other things you should be getting on with; that normal, everyday stuff like cleaning the house, doing the shopping, earning the wage. And, in my case, finding a new job as I Horlicks’d up my last interview.

I’m sure I’m doing the right thing by delaying my re-rewrite. But intellectual and emotional are two diff’rent worlds, and ne’er the twain shall meet.

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