So: it’s finally happened. I have started writing a new story. And, unlike my last effort, I even know what this is going to be called, though I’ll save that revelation for another day – when I’m sure that this is actually going to happen and isn’t just a random twitching of the fingers. One session, one thousand words, does not a novel make.
But I have made a start. I won’t be writing every day, especially when the Pandemic work-from-home-ishness of life is over and I have to return to the great wide world. But if I can grind away a bit a week I’ll be happy.
When I was beginning to write seriously I used to be in a rush to get everything done. It was a fear, I think, that I’d ‘lose it’; that I’d grind to a halt and never get the wheels moving again. Now I am much more sanguine. I chip away, a few words at a time, and watch the end slowly, slowly get closer.
Writing is all self-doubt and angst anyway; why add more to the burden?
This is a fine philosophy but it’s hardly how I live. I worried about having lost my imagination in a fallow period from August to yesterday, and I’m still not sure that I have the mental fortitude to carry out a major project like writing a novel. Which is why I spent the time to create something akin to a plan: trying to force my brain to work rather than waiting forever for that bolt of lightning to strike.
Starting something new feels like such a relief. The fear of failure – of having nothing left – is so stultifying that to finally exhale is a joy. But I’m not there yet. I need to know this novel is working, that the words are coming regularly, in order to trust that I am once again free to do the thing I love.
I’ve just realised how contradictory I’m being here. I veer from optimism to pessimism in alternate paragraphs. I worry and then I’m more sanguine. I feel relief and then talk about the anxiety of not writing.
Well, maybe that’s part of the point. Writing often involves – for me at least – holding a lot of contradictory viewpoints at the same time. I’m a good writer and yet I’m nothing special. This novel is the best I’ve written and yet it doesn’t stack up with all the agented reads I see being published.
The fact is that we live in a world of uncertainty, of doubts, of twilights. Writing will never be easy for me but it is what I do. And I think the doubts, the second-guessing, will always be part of it because it is in me.