I am revising and I am ripping my novel into pieces and pondering commas and all that other editing madness and here's the thing: I love my story.
I'm almost afraid to say it. Like it should be whispered. Or blog-whispered.
i love my story, shh don't tell.
This is terrifying.
I keep expecting to hate the story, especially because it's such a freaking mess. You've seen my final chapter in it's entirety in the last post, all 23 words of it. The whole thing is still at 26K. It has no written ending, plot lines have to be changed, characters have to be added. And it's going to take a ton of work just to get this into a somewhat coherent first draft, let alone a brilliant and polished manuscript.
But I still love it. Like, a lot.
Like I want to burst into song, but I want to sing about how much I love my ms, but there's not really a song for that, so I'm just gonna end up singing Jay-Z "I got 99 problems but a WiP aint one, if you're havin' writin' trouble I feel bad for you son, 'cause I got 99 problems and a WiP aint one, hit me!"
(We can pretend that never happened.)
I want to bottle this feeling and save it for later, when I really need it.
Oh, and before you get sad because you are indeed having writing trouble and were looking for more advice than "I feel bad for you son"-- DON'T WORRY. It's totally cyclical. Trust me. You'll come to love your story again. Just as I will come to hate mine. Maybe tomorrow. I guess you'll know if this post mysteriously disappears and is replaced with a rant about how hard it is to write a freaking book.
I probably shouldn't blog when I'm highly caffinated at 4am anymore.