It’s happened again. I’m approaching the completion of a writing project (Book 1 of Above Ground), and all I can think of is how much I hate everything I’ve ever written, and want to cross it all out with a big red pen and start again.
I am under no pretences that I am special, and that this quirk is unique to me. Heck, Neil Gaiman gave an awesome pep talk during NaNo about this very writing milestone.
Not that that makes me feel any better.
It really doesn’t help that my “serious” writing – my WIP novel, The Steorra – reached the same stage early last year, and has remained on a dusty shelf ever since.
Then, reading through other author’s 2009 round-up blog posts, and seeing all the stories they’ve written and submitted and published, makes me feel that tiny bit more inadequate inside.
Now that I am approaching the end of Above Ground – an end that I dread writing – I’ve come to realize that it hardly is the true end of the story. It’s a first draft, hastily written, entirely unedited. I can’t bring myself to call it finished when it’s so unpolished, yet I can’t bring myself to edit it when I feel there are more important projects to work on, because – let’s face it – I’m not savvy enough to make my way alone as an independently published author. That, and I really want to be commercially published. Really.
But the dream, right now, seems to be just that: a dream.