![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Sometimes I feel like there's no room in my heart for this novel I'm working on. A story about two gay guys in San Francisco, trying to figure out love and how it works and whether it's worth the risk. (Though the bit about risk definitely resonates with me right now.) Neither of the two protagonists are where my heart is, lately. Neither will be a mom, needless to say. They won't even be parents. Neither wants kids, at least for a good many years and probably not at all. While more than 95 percent of my brain is taken up with considering parenting and motherhood and how that works in my life. So - how do I write about something entirely different? People so far from where my life is right now.
Maybe Michael and Anthony aren't real enough yet - maybe I haven't spent enough time developing them. But I've been working on this story in one form or another for years. (Though a good portion of that time 'working' is somewhat of an overstatement.) I've outlined, I've taken notes. I've considered and reconsidered point of view and timeline and I'm just not getting it together. I'm floundering around, not much farther along than I was a couple of years ago. And that's depressing. Because, regardless of all of the confusion, I *like* Michael and Anthony. I want to tell their story. I'm the only one that can. When I was going over all of this with mom, she suggested that maybe it just wasn't working. That I should shelf the story. I'm not sure whether she meant for a bit, or for good, but the thought of giving up just doesn't work for me. I don't want to give up. But I'm also not sure how to move forward. I'm stuck.
I've been considering working on another story I have brewing. One that's more in line with my current preoccupations. But I'm not sure that's a good option. So many novelists write about the mid-stretch of a novel where everything feels lost and confused and other stories look like much better ideas. But, they warn, if a writer gives in to the shiny new story, after about 75 pages or so that story is just as middle-bound. Then one ends up with a drawer full of novel-halfs, none of which could ever be published and not because they're bad or badly written, but because they aren't even complete drafts.
So here I sit, trying to figure out the 'right' thing to do, when there *is* no right thing to do. There is only the next thing. I just don't know what that is. I suppose I could try and write both - move between them when one isn't going where I want it to. But I barely have time for one. That seems like a bad option too. I just need to get my butt in the chair, my fingers on the keyboard or wrapped around a pen and start writing. Something, anything. Not journaling.
( A bit of anxiety waffle... )
Maybe Michael and Anthony aren't real enough yet - maybe I haven't spent enough time developing them. But I've been working on this story in one form or another for years. (Though a good portion of that time 'working' is somewhat of an overstatement.) I've outlined, I've taken notes. I've considered and reconsidered point of view and timeline and I'm just not getting it together. I'm floundering around, not much farther along than I was a couple of years ago. And that's depressing. Because, regardless of all of the confusion, I *like* Michael and Anthony. I want to tell their story. I'm the only one that can. When I was going over all of this with mom, she suggested that maybe it just wasn't working. That I should shelf the story. I'm not sure whether she meant for a bit, or for good, but the thought of giving up just doesn't work for me. I don't want to give up. But I'm also not sure how to move forward. I'm stuck.
I've been considering working on another story I have brewing. One that's more in line with my current preoccupations. But I'm not sure that's a good option. So many novelists write about the mid-stretch of a novel where everything feels lost and confused and other stories look like much better ideas. But, they warn, if a writer gives in to the shiny new story, after about 75 pages or so that story is just as middle-bound. Then one ends up with a drawer full of novel-halfs, none of which could ever be published and not because they're bad or badly written, but because they aren't even complete drafts.
So here I sit, trying to figure out the 'right' thing to do, when there *is* no right thing to do. There is only the next thing. I just don't know what that is. I suppose I could try and write both - move between them when one isn't going where I want it to. But I barely have time for one. That seems like a bad option too. I just need to get my butt in the chair, my fingers on the keyboard or wrapped around a pen and start writing. Something, anything. Not journaling.
( A bit of anxiety waffle... )
