Sep 16 2008
This week, I finished edits on my Christmas story, Hunk of Coal. I also finished revisions on a story I wrote the last word on a month ago, and I submitted it (and thanks to Layla Aaron for the title help!). All this while I put the last touches on the first burst of world building for a new series and pondered the best way to get it outlined and ready to write.
I have to wonder if some writers love what they do by the end of the story. I sure as hell don’t. At the start, I’m so excited about the premise, the characters, the whole kit and kaboodle. It’s fresh! It’s new! It’s jam packed with potential and creative goodness! If you could bottle the stuff, you’d be rich.
By the end, I hate every single bloody word I’ve written.
Yep, even the.
The more I write, the more I notice patterns in how I do things and how I feel about things. Initial excitement. Panic as I have to transform ideas into words. Love as the story begins. Loathing as it ends. Doubt, depression as hours become days become weeks become months waiting for a response. Grim acceptance when the rejection comes, or elation when the acceptance does.
It’s a roller coaster I ride every time I stare at a blank Microsoft Word document. Every time I comb through pages of scribbled notes and doodles, trying to make sense of what I horked into the notebook. Every time I wonder if I couldn’t just type “And they freaking lived happily ever after! I am so done!” and send the damn thing out.
Libba Bray did a wonderful post on just this very topic. This is exactly how it works. And it’s kind of nice to know that I’m not the only one who hates what I write by the end of the thing.
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