It’s late at night and my mind is drifting into other story territories, what I once thought was the realm of the writer’s mind, to be working on five stories at once.
Anything but what I should be doing.
These ideas are impinging on the current story, and somehow are finding their way onto the page.
Writing, cursing, deleting, re-writing, deleting, cursing.
I’m working on the latest book and it is not going well. I’m gping through a serious bout of self-doubt. It’s why I can’t concentrate.
It’s why I’m thinking about the next story, simply because I don’t think this one is good enough. I’m not sure why; the editor is happy with the way it’s shaping up.
But these periods of doubt cause me to be over critical of what I have written and that leads to a lot of pressing the delete key.
And then to suddenly realize that an action taken in haste can be regrettable, and makes me feel even more depressed when I realize the deletions are irrecoverable.
I think I’d be happier in a garret somewhere channelling van Gogh’s rage.
Lesson learned – don’t delete, save it to a text file so it can be retrieved when sanity returns.
I was not happy with the previous start. Funny about that, because until a few weeks ago I thought the start was perfect.
It seems it’s been like that for a few weeks now, not being able to stick to the job in hand, doing anything but what I’m supposed to be doing.
I recognize the restlessness; I’m not happy with the story as it is, so rather than getting on with it, I find myself writing words just for the sake of writing words.
Any words are better than none, right?
So I rewrote the start, added about a hundred pages and now I have to do a mass of rewriting of what was basically the whole book.
But here’s the thing.
This morning I woke up and looked at the new start, and I suddenly feel my head is in the right space.