Writing well enough to satisfy other people has always been pretty easy for me. I can sit down and hammer out a paper on just about any topic that will satisfy most expectations. I seem to be able to find a tone and an approach that will work.
This is not bragging. I don't really consider it a personal accomplishment any more than I consider breathing to be a personal accomplishment. It's just something I do.
But now that I'm trying to do it on another level, I realize I'm now facing my harshest critic: myself. Rarely have I written something that completely satisfies me. I know what I'm trying to say, I can find the words, but when I put them on paper, they don't completely express my thoughts.
Writing the novel I've been working on has been, well...work. I can get the basics down, but the nuances are much more difficult.
I decided recently to self-publish my novel on Kindle in two parts or possibly as a trilogy. This decision means I am now editing the first part in anticipation of publication. I knew as I was writing that I would have to do some heavy editing. Now that I am going back over it, I'm picking it apart.
When I have written before, I have had a deadline. Now, I have no deadline. I can edit at my own pace. This has proven maddening. I change something then I change it back. Then I change it again, but that requires that I change several other things. Continuity in a work of this length is difficult.
I spend a good portion of my time editing. I've stopped writing new material for a bit in order to get this first portion out. As I substitute teach, I use "my" planning period to edit. I come home from school and edit. I cook dinner, eat, clean up, and then edit. I make sure the kids get in the bath and in bed on time and I edit. When my wife comes home, I talk to her for a bit, but when we sit down on the couch to watch television I edit. She goes to sleep and I edit.
The other day my children finished eating and my son sat down on the couch with me while I was editing. My son asked me what I was doing. I told him I was editing. He wanted to know what that meant, so I told him that there are many ways to say things, but usually only one best way. I'm trying to find the best way.
My daughter came downstairs and told me she had finished the first chapter of the book she was writing. Then she asked if I was editing. I said yes. My kids are hip to what I'm doing.
But I'm just writing a simple YA zombie novel. That doesn't mean it shouldn't be good. In addition to trying to write a good, engaging story, I'm also trying to do a few other things. I'm playing with Joseph Campbell's "Hero with a Thousand Faces" storyline. I'm doing an homage to Huckleberry Finn. I'm trying to depict the development of the young adult from ego-driven isolation into self-actualization as part of the whole.
Maybe I'm trying to do too much. That's why I can't be satisfied. But I think I'd rather shoot for something greater that the sum of its parts and fail than just hammer out something I think will sell.
But boy, I hope it does sell.
I've always wanted to be a writer. I'd like to make my living that way. Do I love writing? No, not really. I love teaching. But right now that isn't working out for me. Writing is just something I can do. Like breathing. So I probably should.
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