My edits have been turned in, and I’m working on a new project until the next round comes in. But see, here’s my problem with writing. The one thing that makes my life a living hell, when I need to work on writing a book, or revising a book, or any one of the thousand other things that go into this life.
I’m in love with being in love.
See, its simple. No idea is as beautiful (as shiny, if you will), as that Next Idea. It hasn’t been tainted by your tendency to use big words, awkward phrasing, and actions that are full of too many dense, beautiful sentences. It hasn’t been overcomplicated with all those plot strings that you just KNOW will make this the best book ever. It’s a flawless, perfect, beautiful diamond of an idea.
I’m in love with the Next Idea. When it finally comes time to write This Idea? Suddenly the sheen isn’t as lustrous as I thought. The color really doesn’t set off my eyes the way I thought it did. Actually, I think it’s kinda flat. There’s no BAM. This idea, well, it wasn’t that Shiny New Idea that I thought it was.
Essentially, I have buyer’s remorse. But you know, with books. And characters. And plot. Oh plot, you evil harlot. How you love to draw me in, seduce me with your endgame twists, your big reveals. And then you’re flat like the can of Diet Coke I opened two days ago. You sell me a bill of goods you never deliver on.
I’m in love with being in love. No book’s as perfect as the one I haven’t written yet. In my head, it’s a thing of glory. The standard by which all young adult novels will one day be compared.
Later it’s…nice. But it’s not quite as big as I hoped it would be. I wanted it to be taller. To be more popular. To marry a nice chick lit novel and settle down somewhere, preferably after finishing college.
So what about you? What’s your writerly downfall?