After 20 long months, sometimes unhappy, always a grind, the first draft of my 6th novel is complete. I remember the feelings of exaltation and relief when Gaslight, the novel I’m probably most proud of, was completed (a longer draft and in less time than the current effort) and knew that I had something. The emotion this time is the complete antithesis of that.
I’ve broken all the golden rules, really. The first is finishing to a deadline, by hook or by crook. I’ve written countless posts over the last year in which I thought the end was in sight, and every failure made me more depressed with the whole thing. It’s been more than a monkey on my back, more like a fucking gorilla. So, in the last week, I’ve kind of washed my hands of the manuscript and wrapped everything up. I’m moving house next week, and so the coming months will be busy, and I didn’t want to have it hanging over my head.
‘Wrapping it up’ is a laughable description of the novel’s conclusion. It’s an utter disaster area. There are subplots that don’t go anywhere. Character actions that are inexplicable. I started the novel at its conclusion, and then worked back from there, and the two sides don’t match. It’s like two different books written by two different people. Worst of all, I’ve tried to inject a twist or two and I’ve fallen flat on my face. I wanted to have the unreliable narrator, at once compelling and shocking, so the reader is never on firm ground. Is he a murderer or a misunderstood innocent? But it just comes across as confusing. I’ve gotten myself into a tangle on basic but essential plot elements, too. I have no idea how I’m going to resolve it.
The greatest fear of all, as it always is, is whether this is it. Maybe I’m washed up. Five passable novels is more, in output at least, than some have managed (Harper Lee, J.D Salinger to name two off the top of my head). So it isn’t beyond the realms of possibility that I’m not cut out for it anymore. And I feel a scintilla of guilt that I’ve wasted nearly two years of writing on a novel that will never be read by anyone except me, and for what? Ordinarily my personal happiness and enjoyment is enough, but I’ve not felt that this time. It’s been a terrible slog. Tedious on occasion. I’ve felt utterly helpless, and unable to cut a trail through the thicket.
So, for now, I don’t want to write a word of fiction for a good while. As I said, moving house will take up most of my time, and making the flat presentable, and hopefully a change of scenery (I can just about see the sea from the lounge window) will ignite a spark again. If I really am done, I genuinely don’t know what I’m going to do to stay sane. Writing is all I have that’s mine, really. Without it, what do I have left?