Whenever I start to feel stuck on a part in my book, I go back to the beginning. Occasionally this the cause for inspiration and pride, but usually it prompts the fervent click of the backspace button. I have a love/hate relationship with editing. In the past, I’ve seen it as a burden, as a shameful admission of imperfection. Most of my papers in high school and college were turned in completely unedited, unadulterated, pure. This was always a point of pride for me. I’m a first draft girl. I doubt I’ll even look back at this post. It wasn’t until my senior year of college that I realized that editing wasn’t a reflection of failure. A good writer should be able to review their work and willing to make changes. It’s like disciplining a child- as much as you’d like to avoid it, it has to be done to keep them from turning into a monster.
It sucks. Going over the first part of my novel, I’m realizing that there are parts that are way more show than tell. As much as I love the way certain parts are written, they show my hand. It’s not fair to my characters (or my readers, if any) to drop word bombs like that. So I’m cutting. I’m rewriting, leaving the mystery. I’m revamping too. I’ve realized that my main character is coming off a little too altruistic, which isn’t what I want. I want a flawed human being in search for herself, not an empty headed ingenue. So I’m shaping, I’m changing, I’m editing.
And I’m getting somewhere, which is what matters.
I can’t remember the last time we spoke. I can’t remember the curl of your smile, or the sound of your laugh. When do friends dissolve into acquaintances? What is the process, what makes an ending?
Inseparable. That was our mantra. It seems funny now, looking back. So naive. We were only children then, children holding onto the endless sticky summers and the short days of winter, wrapped in our cloaks, gripping our pencils like sonic screwdrivers.
You can’t change the past. Can’t redo the things you’ve done wrong. I think about it as I’m drifting to sleep, the things I’d do right. I’m sorry for the way I spoke, for the turn of my hand, for the tilt of my head, for the dissolution of our friendship. I’m sorry for my part in the drifting, in the ending.
It’s evolution. It’s the natural order of things. We grow up. We leave our childhoods behind. And it’s okay- it has to be. We grow older with the memories of who we used to be, of where we came from. You’re where I came from. You helped shape who I am. And even as we grow old and forgetful there will always be a piece of me where you are.
This is not my first blog. This is in fact, my third. My first blog, Love Letters 7.10, started out as a series of love letters to my son before he was born and has transformed into a blog about my life- faith, family, fulfillment. I will still be posting there regularly. My second blog is Tell Me A Story. It was started to give me a place to write. I haven’t really done much of anything with it, and will most likely be retiring it all together, especially with the incarnation of this blog.
This is a step into seriousness, an attempt to brand myself. This will also give me the opportunity to cut my teeth on wordpress. I’ve heard a plethora of good things, and blogger can be limiting. I have a lot planned for 2013 for myself and for my writing, and I need space. So here it is. This is my space. This is the place where I can explore myself further, explore my writing further. There are a thousand cliches in the world about writing and being a writer, and I don’t intend to add to them, but writing is a part of me. I spent the first few years of college ignoring that, and the last resurrecting it. It’s been a hell of a journey, and it’s not over yet.
This year I have resolved to reach one hundred thousand words in my book, to apply to graduate school, to make time for myself, to make time for my writing. Motherhood is like a sponge, absorbing each and every bit of my if I let it. But a happy mother is a happy son, and I need to work on me before I can be the best for him. I am grateful to have the support of my husband in this, the support of my family. Writing isn’t just a pipe dream, it’s my passion.