“So,” she said, “how’s the writing going?”
Is there any question more terrifying than that? Obviously I didn’t know how to answer her, aside from some vague mentions of some unfinished stories, even though it was true. The most difficult part of those whole endeavour is pulling the splayed fingers of ideas into a focused fist of story. Every couple of weeks I take inventory of all the stories I’ve tossed around with completion percentages [I know]. Nothing’s ever at 100%, and what’s worse nothing’s at 90% either. Seven story ideas at last count, none of which are done, even a first draft. And yet I keep reading books on fiction or platform creation or on the Writer’s Market and to what end? I have nothing to sell.
So what are my issues? Low language, lack of sensual detail, too much dialogue, clunky plots, an inability to answer the question ‘Why is this story being told?’ and so on and so forth. My research into what makes good fiction good fiction has taught me much, including a paralyzing and firm belief that what I create is not good fiction.
Funny, Nanowrimo is fast approaching again. I’m sure I’ll have a longer post at the time on my problems with Nano [despite participating in two and winning one] but what always bummed me out about Nano was my own arrogance that everyone involved, everyone else who was writing seemed so…crap. Kids and shut-ins aping their favourite fantasy authors. I felt no kinship with them, and certainly thought I was more skilled than them. Not so sure anymore. At least they finish.
But all you can do is keep going. I’m going to try to write more fragments to post up here, because at least they’re something, and I’m in the midst of the tiring process of typing up all the scribbles scattered over three Moleskine notebooks [because my people love them]. Once I get some clean copy printed, I might be able to get them to a point where I’m ready to show them to my Lady, let alone any of you.
The fight continues, friends.