Invest-a-Lot Enterprises, Inc.
The foundations are being laid for big things in my life, but it’s hard to stay objective. From day to day, all I see is the detail. Have you ever looked at a building site, right at the beginning? Each house, when all you can see is the soles of its feet, looks pathetic. Tiny. Crap. The builders just have to focus on laying those bricks, and have faith.
It’s petrifying. Exciting too, but still - I’m scared.
I wrote a book. My attitude was schizophrenic. If I hadn’t been able to clearly see it, bound and sitting on a shelf with my name in big letters on the spine, I doubt I would have finished it. But I was pretty sure it would never be in Waterstone’s. I’d never written so much as a short story, never mind a whole novel. I had no reason to believe I could even write. There was too much competition. I didn’t have the right contacts. It would probably end up in a dark drawer, never to see the light... oh hang on, they want to publish it. Wow.
And now, here I am. Number Two.
There were problems with Number One. I’m proud of it, and people genuinely enjoy reading it, but you can tell it’s the author’s first. I’ve learnt a lot. The second will be better.
But what if it isn’t?
Last week was good, but it ended on a downer. The last scene I worked on didn’t go well. I decided the characters are all phony, their interactions are clichéd, the plot is too complicated and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
And me being me, I’ve heaped extra pressures on myself. I want another child. I don’t want the gap between Felix and sibling to be too big. When I was pregnant last time, I nearly died. I couldn’t write for a whole year. There’s a 60% chance I’ll get the same condition again. I have to assume that I will.
So I have, I have, I really have to finish this book before trying for parenthood again. And just to make things interesting, I also “have” to organise a loft conversion.
The pressure is on. It’s too late to change my mind about whether I’m writing the right book or not. It’s too late to make any major changes. I have to bite the bullet and get on with it. And fast.
OK, so I could forget about it. Put family first, let my writing career slide for a few years. But God, I have to be a writer. Who writes what she wants to, and does it well. As often as possible. Which will, can, must only happen if I write another book. A good one. Right now. This minute.
It’s fucking terrifying.
It’s petrifying. Exciting too, but still - I’m scared.
I wrote a book. My attitude was schizophrenic. If I hadn’t been able to clearly see it, bound and sitting on a shelf with my name in big letters on the spine, I doubt I would have finished it. But I was pretty sure it would never be in Waterstone’s. I’d never written so much as a short story, never mind a whole novel. I had no reason to believe I could even write. There was too much competition. I didn’t have the right contacts. It would probably end up in a dark drawer, never to see the light... oh hang on, they want to publish it. Wow.
And now, here I am. Number Two.
There were problems with Number One. I’m proud of it, and people genuinely enjoy reading it, but you can tell it’s the author’s first. I’ve learnt a lot. The second will be better.
But what if it isn’t?
Last week was good, but it ended on a downer. The last scene I worked on didn’t go well. I decided the characters are all phony, their interactions are clichéd, the plot is too complicated and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
And me being me, I’ve heaped extra pressures on myself. I want another child. I don’t want the gap between Felix and sibling to be too big. When I was pregnant last time, I nearly died. I couldn’t write for a whole year. There’s a 60% chance I’ll get the same condition again. I have to assume that I will.
So I have, I have, I really have to finish this book before trying for parenthood again. And just to make things interesting, I also “have” to organise a loft conversion.
The pressure is on. It’s too late to change my mind about whether I’m writing the right book or not. It’s too late to make any major changes. I have to bite the bullet and get on with it. And fast.
OK, so I could forget about it. Put family first, let my writing career slide for a few years. But God, I have to be a writer. Who writes what she wants to, and does it well. As often as possible. Which will, can, must only happen if I write another book. A good one. Right now. This minute.
It’s fucking terrifying.
8 Comments:
Don't be scared.
Or be scared, but jump anyway.
Sometimes we fly.
And am I totally batty or is there a birthday coming up?
You may well be totally batty, but there is indeed a birthday coming up. This Sunday. I'll be 36 years old, which is good cos it's 9x4 and 6x6 and 2x3x2x3 and I like numbers with lots of factors.
I want the royalty cheque to arrive on my birthday, but it can't unless someone bribes a postman to steal the queen's mail and then work on a Sunday...
Aww Felix will be such a good big brother. :oD
More kids? More books? Loft conversion? Time for fun in there somewhere, or are all of these things fun in themselves?
Kids are more fun than you can shake a stick at.
Loft conversions are fun for anal people like me, who like plotting, scheming, looking at architect's drawings and packing things into boxes.
Writing novels... well, sometimes fun and sometimes not. Getting published? The MOST fun I have ever ever had.
I do have other forms of fun too. Like my birthday weekend, which is going to be 48 hours of unadulterated fun and starts less than 48 hours from now. Woooooohoooooo!
You're younger than me!
Have a great birthday ... (grumble, grumble, everyone's blooming younger than me these days... I refuse to be old, I've been wearing purple with red tights that don't go for years and I refuse to stop now).
HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANYWAY!
Hurrah for purple and red. Don't ever stop. My grandfather is 95. I'm going to live to be 120. Even if I only live to 95, I'm less than a third of the way through my adult life. What a waste if I spent the majority of my adult life whingeing about being old! Same goes for you too. Hurrah for staying young forever!
Overcommitment is my middle name, too. And sometimes well-meaning people say to me 'you can't have it all, you know.' And I say right back 'Why not?' And they never seem to have a good answer for me. Just keep on truckin'!
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