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.
