I’m in a rush. I don’t know why because I’ve been working on this story for a long time. I feel like with writing that I’m always in a rush. I’m always trying to skip from idea in my head to Make-Poor-Hapless-Soul read my first draft. You don’t want to be that soul by the way. My first drafts are legendary for not making any sense. My story barely makes sense now. Imagine when it started…
I don’t know why I am always rushing. I know part of it is excitement. I’m hoping that this thing is really good and that my reader will think it is really good too. That part of it is easy to understand. It’s that whole justification of myself as a writer thing. I get that.
The other reason has more to do with my wanting to get it off my plate. It’s hard for me to work on my other novels (even the completed ones) knowing I could be spending time on this one. It is by far the closest one to being “ready.” It is so close that every word I write on another story actually delays this one going out the door and into the world.
I need it to go out the door, and I need it to see the world. Then I can put it to bed. Right now I’m in that heart fluttering, butterflies in my stomach pattern waiting for my crit partner to finish the latest chapter so I can turn around and punt that chapter to the other partner. Even when that’s all done, I have a Poor-Hapless-Soul all ready to go for what, I hope, will be the final read through.
Then it’s off to the races. Because I’m rushing now, and I don’t know why. Except, I do know why. This book has been hanging over my head for seven years. It needs to not be doing that. It needs to find its wings and fly away so I can start the cycle all over again.
Who knows, by novel five I might glance at the manuscript, shrug my shoulders before hitting the “submit” button and say to myself “Fifth novel.”