I doubt myself. As a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a believer. But mostly, as a writer.
Sometimes the words fail me. Their chemistry, their composition, their themes, they elude me. And I think, how am I supposed to be a writer this way? How am I to write a novel? How do I make it deep and shimmering and worthy and good, with all the quality fiction is supposed to have?
It's a tough place to be, because here I have this dream, and this story to tell (a book to write), and an effort I wish into existence.
Yesterday I was reading Donald Maass' Writing the Breakout Novel. I don't know if I can articulate what I read--it was a breakdown of one author's plot, for just one of her titles, in how she made it work. And what I needed to be doing--no, what I was doing wrong--just sort of lighted on me. I knew what I wasn't doing, but more, what I needed to be doing.
And then I took a close look at my work-in-progress. At where it sits now, starting at the very beginning. Because you know, you can't see what you have unless you start at the very beginning. Then I took it from there, and started to implement this new what-I-should-be-doing thing.
It sounds so simple. It's not, not in the long run, but for that moment, it was as simple as simple could be.
I saw my WIP as it could be, that maybe it will work.
And it made me think, I can do this. I can be a writer. I am a writer. Look at me go.
It feels like anything--even publication--is possible.
**I'll leave our progressive story "live" through the weekend. I'll reassess next week, and we'll wrap it up then. See two previous posts for more details.