I read books on story structure, creative writing and memoir. Armed with all of this helpful information, I began the task of getting words down onto a page.
Once I was a ways into my manuscript, I listened
to podcasts like this one and this one, and wrapped my head around the difference between plotters and
pantsers, the merits of a crappy first draft and how best to utilize beta
readers.
When I was nearing a stage of being ready to
show my work to someone, I poured over blog posts on author platforms, the
publishing process and pitching.
In the past few years have managed to write and
edit a manuscript, get an agent, find a publisher, and am now on the cusp of
launching my first book. Some might say that is a reasonable effort.
But during my on-line research, I read (continue
to read!) many accounts of authors finishing their first book, starting
immediately on their next, and continuing a cycle of churning out books at a
dizzying pace. One book a year. Often two. Some people hammering them out in a
few short months! I wanted to be one of those authors.
For most of my life I have pushed myself hard.
Take no prisoners. Cut no slack. I am a doer who gets things done. In my work
as a copywriter, I am the queen of quick turnaround. I gain great satisfaction
from beating deadlines and exceeding expectations.
I planned for it to be the same with writing
books. But I hadn’t counted on the way delving into my emotional world could
sap my drive.
In all my years of writing copy for brochures,
websites, and business plans, I can’t say I have ever shed a tear. The same cannot
be said of writing a memoir covering such light-weight terrain as my deepest
childhood wounds and the trauma of war. (There are funny, happy bits as well –
promise!)
Still, despite the fact that some days I felt so
drained I could barely put one foot in front of the other, I tried to stick to
my guns. I was determined to have the first draft of my next book, a young
adult fiction, completed by the time Enemy
hit the shelves.
With that goal set, as soon as my memoir
manuscript was with my editor, I started in. I began churning out words and
managed to get about a quarter of the way into the draft. Then the edits came
back, and I had to rake back over that old ground. Each time I re-worked a
section I re-lived the experience on which it was based, feeling those old
feelings so I could distil them into the purest emotional truth I knew.
By this time, I had started to feel tired. Deep
down to my bones tired.
But I have never been one to let the mundane
fact that I am human stop me from pushing myself like a machine. So when I
finished that next editing process, I jumped straight back to my other
manuscript.
But I could feel my blood running thin, like my
foot was on the accelerator but there was nothing in the tank. Finally, after finding
myself wide awake night after night with stress pulsing in my gut, and hacking
up a lung each day for three months from a cold I couldn’t shake, I began to
question what the hell I was trying to prove. And to whom.
I think part of my motivation was fear. I felt
so lucky to have had a book accepted for publication that I wanted to prove –
to myself, to my agent, to my publishers – that their faith in me was not
misplaced. Another reason I wanted it done was because I had heard that writing
a second book was harder than writing a first, and I wanted to see if I could
do it. There was also the fact that before someone suggested I should give
fiction a go, it had never occurred to me. And I was really excited by the
idea.
But though I still think about my YA book all
the time, I have had to face up to the fact that I am not going to be one of
those quick turnaround authors. My first book is hitting the shelves in three days
time, and my second manuscript is not finished. And you know what, I am okay
with that. More than okay.
I am a first-time author. I am still figuring out
what my writing process actually is. So I am taking the pressure off. I am not
going to fall into the comparison trap. I am practicing being kind to myself,
instead of always expecting more.
Besides, I have written a book. An actual
factual book that people can buy from bookshops. That is a peak life experience
right there. I need to spend the next few months mooning about the place with a
big smile on my face, letting the wonderful delightfulness of it all sink in.
Then, once my feet touch the ground again, I am
going to get back into my YA. Not to prove anything to the imaginary critics in
my head. But because the guy in it is so hot. And my lead character is so
funny. And I need to figure out what happens between her and her mother. And
what goes down between her Mum and her aunt…
Now that I have had a taste of writing books, I
am hooked. I want to do it for a long time. That means protecting myself
against burnout, and choosing the carrot over the stick. No more comparisons. Just me with a laptop having fun with my imaginary friends.
Each person's creative process is as unique as the work they produce. How do you approach your writing?
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