Being a writer is, without a doubt, one of the most frustrating things a person can decide to be. I use a variety of fun metaphors to explain exactly how frustrating (one I’ve used lately is it’s like smashing your head against a wall for a high), which still makes people sometimes wonder what on earth keeps us all going.
What keeps me going? A friend recently called me a demonic Energizer Bunny. The past three years has seen me take five epic-length (that is, over 100k words) novels from scratch to polished completion. I have one more novel to add to that, which is still in the works. And while I’ve had periods where I couldn’t get anything down for any length of time, I’ve noticed that when I do commit to completing a manuscript, I tend to finish that novel in record time. Birthplace from what I remember was also finished in a span of a few months, and so was the first and last incarnations of Jaeth’s Eye.
I’ll be honest, though; I don’t really think of it that way. I am not rushing towards some imaginary finish line. I’m not forcing myself through word counts, or committing to a schedule, or anything like that.
On a day-to-day basis, I have two main things: discipline in meeting deadlines, and my desire to discover the story.
That last part is key.
I don’t want to complete a novel. I don’t want to slay that dragon simply so I can mount its head on my wall. I am not trying to write a bestseller or chase market trends. Those things are all very well and good if they work for you, but they don’t work for me. Forced word counts bore me. Even sticking to my own outlines bore me. My ass is glued to this chair because I love stories and I want to find out what happens next.
My first drafts these days are messier than they used to be. I’m not interested in perfection. I just want to use all the skills I have so I can drag the essence of this story, kicking and screaming, out for me to see. And then my editing revolves around simply making it all work–in easing out the beats and rhythms of the whole damn thing, fixing it over and over again until I’m happy with it. I told that same friend recently that my validation comes from that end point–when I can read the novel in full and it sings to me. Not just “This is good enough,” or “Yeah, it’ll sell, I’ve seen worse.” No. I have to love this novel so much I can read it from page to page without setting any of my tics off, without making me hate myself. All of which are difficult enough to achieve; most days it feels impossible. And the journey before and after are fraught with danger and hardships, and it never gets any easier, either.
But to a storyteller, all I need is that moment. It’s how I can drop that last novel I wrote and start all over again. And now that I no longer have life excuses holding me back, I’m doing this until I drop dead.
