I write this on the eve of embarking on something I am PETRIFIED of doing; reading through the first book I ever wrote well over a year ago.
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| Sunset symbolism |
'What is this madness?' I hear you say. Well, I suppose I should start at the very beginning ... a very good place to start. Brace yourself, it's long (and pretty honest). BAM:
Back in October/November 2012, I had an idea for a story that got me majorly excited. I wrote a page worth of details, was bursting with joy over it then just ... decided it didn't exist any more. Before the idea came to me, I had been toying with the notion of writing, thinking, 'Oh how lovely would it be to write', but always in a wistful, STAYS WELL CLEAR OF ALL WRITING APPARATUS, kinda way.
That idea and page of notes I had made stayed untouched, where it burned a hole in my brain but felt more comfortable than the fear of trying to do something with it and failing abysmally. Knowing there was a chance it
could be something, instead of having a go then affirming that I was a failure, was safe to me. A place I had been hanging out in for a large chunk of my life.
The seasons passed and the following May I had a day at work that I hated more than words can say - so much so that I remember crying in a corridor thinking 'What the hell am I doing with my life?!' A few weeks later, I decided to pull up that much-feared word document of notes for
the idea and just write. I wrote three chapters thinking they were terrible but writing them anyway because the experience at work was acting as motivation to just do it. After finishing the three chapters, I was too scared to read them myself so in a dramatic indulgent state, I asked my mum to read them for me.
Her reaction: A slightly confused pause after reading them, then an unsure, 'You wrote this?'
Me: Nods head, expecting the worst,
Mum: 'It's good.' She looked surprised.
Intrigued by her reaction, I then read it myself ... I was also surprised. It was not, as I feared, the worst thing I had ever read plus, I adored writing it, even through the waves of depression thinking I was really bad. Spurred on, I felt ready to continue writing to see what would happen ... and then I became ill. I have already talked about this in previous posts but if you didn't know, for the past two years I have been housebound. I am getting better but it's taking it's sweet time. There you go. For the first two months of being ill, I was pretty much a zombie and couldn't even remember my name but in mid-August, even though I still felt terrible, randomly I reread the three chapters I had written and on a whim, picked up where I left off. Before I knew it, a couple of weeks had gone by and I had finished my first draft that came in (I think) just shy of 50,000 words.
My first thought after finishing the first draft? I AM THE WORST WRITER IN THE WORLD.
After that ludicrous epiphany, I then decided, because I was the worst writer in the whole world, to ignore what I had written and not look at it for a while. A few months passed, where I was too scared to look at it but also blooming curious what it was like (I hadn't actually read the blasted thing before declaring I was the worst thing that ever happened to literature FYI). In the end, my mum sat me down and together, we read out the whole thing and something startling happened ... we liked it and I couldn't believe it was mine. I mean, there were some
hilarious disasters, the grammar in places was lunacy but there were parts, beneath the dirt, that I was really proud of. Considering up until this point I had only written in school, it was news to me that there was a chance, with a lot of work (oh yes) and dedication, I could write a book.
In the following months I went through excitement, denial, fear, paranoia, euphoria and many other disconcerting emotions thinking I was terrible, thinking I shouldn't bother, thinking I was OK, and so on. There were periods where I couldn't write because I was too ill but other times when I could and by the following August (2014) I had what I thought was a finished book (LOL). Deep down in my gut I knew it wasn't 100% ready but I panicked and decided to do the lamest attempt at contacting agents to possibly represent me. In the next month or so I got a few rejections (one agent even sent me the email twice, fun) but all the while, I felt uncomfortable knowing that my book was out there and not as good as it could be SO very quickly, I contacted all the agents I had already submitted to and withdrew my manuscript for consideration. By the time I had done all that it was mid-September and I felt relieved. All those agents could have gone on to reject it, maybe one might have seen something in it but regardless, I know I made the right choice. I decided to take some proper time away from that story and move onto something else before I delved back into it again. The 'something else' became
WEIGHTING TO LIVE ... then the subsequent book of short stories ... the sequel novella ... and a random short story.
– If you are still reading this, I applaud your stamina. I am exhausted just typing it. –
Now they are all done and out of the way, FINALLY the time has come to return to this first story of mine and see what state it is in. When I think about it sometimes, I imagine it to be abysmal then other times, I remember a bit I like and feel happy. This story and the characters have been haunting me for a year. I have been desperate to return to it, but also worried what I will find when I do. In the last year since I properly started writing, I have noticed how much my style has improved and am curious whether I will see a difference.
I last looked at the story on 6th August 2014 and I am going to be reading it all the way through from tomorrow, with my mum reading it at the weekend. I will be blogging our reactions as I thought it might be interesting to see how our opinions differ and, I hope, merge.
Asleep yet?
Until next time (if I decide there
is a next time. It might be that bad. Help me!)
