I'm halfway through the first draft of my manuscript today--yay!
This is where I'm at mentally:
..Yeah, not so 'yay'.
At first it was coming together and all very exciting.
I began writing and it was easy...
Then I had my first wave of doubt.
I had to rewrite eighteen pages right out the front gate and it was overwhelmingly bad (still is).
Then my heroine joined the story and their fun chemistry added layers to my main character's personality. Things began to perk up.
Unforeseen elements hopped into my outline.
I was encouraged, and started that rookie, premature and somewhat arrogant, thing of looking into agents and publishers.
I was naively fantasizing how quickly a writing career could come together for me.
(Thankfully, I'm not stupid enough to think about actually submitting for a long time.)
Frankly, what I read and learned about the process scared my socks off.
I pulled my head away from that distraction and back into my story where it belongs and have been trying to keep it there ever since.
That was two weeks and over 100 pages ago.
Now, cresting the midway peek, I'm rethinking the most daunting section of a manuscript, for me: the ending.
Part of me just wants to sum up and shut up.
But seriously, the biggest thing that keeps me going is how much I do love what I'm writing.
The genre, the characters--I'm writing for me.
But also, knowing that I'm writing for me, makes me wonder where the dedication comes from. Why do I pull myself from my warm bed an hour before the rest of the house to type in a dark room?
Especially wearisome when the effort to get up early is made, and the words don't show up with it.
When the rest of the family make plans, and I'm just sitting there, obliviously typing away.
Basically, the thing is...
And good endings: even harder.
But in those rare moments when I reread a scene and admire the necklace of words I strung, it all comes rushing back...
By the end of next month, I will hopefully finish my first draft and more certainly, I turn twenty five.
I approach that finish line with trepidation, knowing it will be bittersweet.
At least Snoopy understands.