I’m in the throes of ANOTHER major revision to my novel. Yes, another one. Just when I start to feel comfortable about my novel–where it is, what needs to be done to make it better–everything turns upside down. I’m back to despair. I’m back to thinking it’s horrible, the characters are flat, the plot is not even plausible. I’m back to late, late nights of writing, revising, tearing the thing to shreds.
Some days, I just wish I could get this damn story out of my head. I’m haunted by it. My mind won’t shut off, the character’s voices won’t shut up. I sound crazy, right? Perhaps it’s the sleep deprivation. Perhaps it’s spending most waking hours of the past year working on some aspect of this novel. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m 2 years away from 40, haven’t worked at a “real” job for 7.5 years, and my last book didn’t sell.
I will say this. Although I’ve never felt more crazy, I’ve never felt more alive.