Writing is supposed to be a work of passion, so it should not be weird to wish to set a manuscript I spent months on, possibly year or more, on fire. I am sure Hemingway did that, or somebody. I am at that point tonight, looking at the messy, boring, ill connected collection of scenes I called a novel.
Four months ago, I thought that novel was amazing. A year ago, I was sure it was ready for publication. A perfect work of art that needed minor tweaking.
I was blinded by love of the story. Truly blinded. It took two years for me to see the flaws. TWO YEARS! I often hear the advice of setting the work aside for a month, three months, maybe even six months. I set it aside for a year, and still thought it was brilliant.
Now you understand why I don’t have another book out. If it was out, it would be crap. It needs a major renovation, but I can see it now. I see the flaws I didn’t before. I can make it sing. But how lovely it would be to see the old version set on fire and burned into ashes. Like a phoenix, the story would rise again and be way better than before. It has to be. That version was crap. I don’t know why I ever liked it.