Writer's Curse

I'm sitting here looking at the manuscript of Demonesque and wondering why I thought I could do this.

I've said on a previous occasion that writing is the easy part, and that remains true. But how many edits does it take for a book to be ready for someone else to read? For an editor to say 'hey, this is terrific, I'll buy it'? For the writer to be satisfied with the work?

How long is a piece of string? A writer will never wholly be satisfied with the work. There is always something more that could have done, something that could have been tweaked, a word changed, a sentence re-written. An editor will also have their say, changing your hard work into something... different. Hopefully, better, but it's still different from your vision.

As writers, we work so damn hard on bringing our imaginations to life for others; months, years of work to be consumed in a few hours.

I wrote Demonesque eighteen months ago and every six months or so, edit it with varying degrees of determination. I'd thought it nearly finished and I couldd be proud of it. Like a child, it's changed, grown. I'd like to think it's matured.

It's got tags sticking out everywhere with coloured posts hidden within the pages waiting for me to notice, to correct, to think about, to re-write, to cut and to re-create, to bind, to teach it how to become whole.

Some time ago, one of my sisters said to me: "How can you expect others to take your writing seriously if you don't?" At the time I was resentful. What the hell did she know about it? How hard it is just to have the ideas, the characters, the world-building, to finish a first draft? How difficult it was to wrestle with concepts, themes, dialogue, conflict and resolutions? Jeez... You labour for months on one single aspect and then get accused of not being serious about it?

Today, though, is when that one question rings true and holds me to the path. I'm still wondering why I thought I could do this. I imagine most writers think the same thing. It's that one barrier that pops up constantly and no amount of ammunition can quell that bloody wall.

Luckily, writers are ingenious. We climb over that wall, dig under it, go around it, close our eyes, stick our fingers in our ears and yell 'I'm not listening! I can't hear you!' and walk through the barrier.

You can't be a coward in this business; you have to put yourself out there and keep doing it no matter what others might say. No matter what the infernal... internal critic might say.

This book is 130k and I wrote it. It may not be great, it's certainly not literature, but it's mine. The fact that I keep coming back to it means it has a lot in it that's compelling.

My job is to make it just as compelling to an editor, to prospective readers out there; not for money, not for fame, not for accolades (though my ego would love that, but because I want to share my imagination.

I look at all those tags now and think "I am a step closer." To what, well that's for the future.

Now I have to go and kill that stiff-necked, domineering and unreasonable perfectionist that lives next door to the inner critic... Anyone got big stick I can beat them both to death with?