It is another quiet week here in lockdown. I am managing to claw out regular writing slots, but now I’ve finished The Great Draft of Doom it is commercial editing that occupies my time. Yes, I have decided it’s best to leave my manuscript out to dry before cracking on with the ironing; the redrafting will wait until I’ve got some kind of objectivity.
Objectivity is the right word, but it’s not quite the honest reason for setting the manuscript to one side. No, the real reason is that finishing the damn thing took a lot out of me and I need to recover. I can’t face the work right now, save maybe in short writing-group-shaped snatches. Doing the necessary cutting and pasting and ripping and stitching is beyond me at the moment.
Objectivity is a side benefit, not a prime motivation. The advice is all about giving yourself critical distance; the experts never tell you about emotional space. But that’s what I find I need more than anything.
So I will spend my time on my editing, and, when I feel strong enough, I’ll get back to my other creative projects. I have two novels to give the final once-over to (which may involve a lot more than it sounds; I’m already getting anxiety over them) before – yes, before I rip Our Kind of Bastard (or Claws, or The Indomitable Gauls, or whatever I end up calling it) to pieces and try and repattern the shreds into something vaguely aesthetic.
So the lull is where I live right now – which is a bit of a shame as I could do with something to take my mind off the current state of the world. Can’t control these things, I suppose; one has to be philosophical. No point in dragging out the work until the perfect moment as there’s really no such thing.
So I sit in what feels like limbo, though of course it’s no such thing: I am doing work and I’m recovering objectivity.
It’s just hard to see where forwards is right now.