Back, You Demonic Blossom!

Augh. So apparently this great fertile creative energy spurt, these lovely green shoots I was seeing, have culminated in some sort of bizarre hybrid carnivorous flower from another planet that is currently gnawing on my head and trying to suck out my brains. (Get behind me, everyone! I'll handle this. Eat hot plasma, you demonic blossom! Ahem. Yeah.) It seems that while I was busy patting myself on the back for getting unstuck, my subconscious capriciously decided to first radically throw into doubt and then completely overhaul a huge chunk of the plot and direction of my novel. Dammit. 50,000 words and NOW I start calling things into question? Sheesh.

I'd like to leave my future self a warning, if not etched into a stone obelisk then at least here in these parenthetical mutterings that I may or may not ever re-read: Hey Self! When you write your next novel, it might possibly behoove you to work out as much of the story AHEAD OF TIME as you can. Given, you'll probably need to make adjustments as the characters and story grow in their inevitable organic way and inspire you in different directions, but it makes things much easier if you can decide on certain main basic plot points first and stick with them. And as long as we're at it, howbout a slightly less ambitious project next time? Maybe just one main character, and a straightforward linear story, and preferably something set in a familiar time and place. This worldbuilding stuff is exhausting when you actually care about not being too derivative and stereotypical. You can make it a lot easier on yourself by sticking with what you already know.

Yes yes, I am learning, I am learning much more than I ever thought I would about the creative process and the art and craft of writing, and overall it's a great thing and I'm happy and satisfied with my journey (and even with a fair amount of what I've actually written, surprisingly). It seems to actually be true that the best way to learn how to write a novel is to write one. And even if the end product isn't a wildly successful commercial enterprise that makes its author rich and famous (hey, a girl can dream, can't she?), it's still a worthwhile enterprise, a big personal achievement that one can point to with a certain amount of pride. But whew, slog slog slog. And I still can't shake the grumpy feeling that even if I finally successfully navigate this novel-writing swamp and come out the other side relatively unscathed, virtually no one else will care, or have even noticed that I was slogging. But I guess there's a lesson or two to be learned there too. (Pesky lessons. Breed faster than flies, I swear.)