I’m feeling anxious.
I’ve got my novel open in one tab, white noise open in another, and I’m ready to revise this thing, I am, but I’m so nervous that, no matter what I do, it’ll be flat and low-stakes and boring. The characters will be nobody. The pacing won’t work. That my drama is slow and the information revelations are in the wrong places and the information revealed isn’t compelling anyway. That I’ll have to revise this thing so hard that it’ll be unrecognizable–again–when I’m done.
Is this the story I want to tell?
What is the story I want to tell?
What I wanted to do when I started was… not this.
It’s missing so much. So many things are in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing, doing… nothing. I’ve been working on it for so long. I love so many parts of it so, so much.
Facing the prospect that this whole thing might be nothing but a trash fire is heart-wrenching.
I’ll be devastated if it doesn’t work out. I’d rather let it sit, potential, forever.