Last couple of days, I’ve been doubting myself. I’ve considered quitting this book and writing something new. I’ve been thinking ‘oh, what if I wrote a series? Series are marketable’, or ‘oh, what about vampires? People LOVE to read about vampires’.
You know what this is? It’s bloody RESISTANCE. It’s my brain, once again, dodging the hard work and trying to convince me that another book will be easier.
It makes sense: I’m in a sticky spot in my novel. I’ve got my 60 pages of exploration, and now I’m struggling to proceed. I’ve got character backstories, a tighter grip on the world, and a general idea about where it’s going. But I don’t have an outline, or any experience to guide me through a second long-hand draft.
Crucially, I also don’t have recent experience of finishing a new manuscript. Barring a novella, the last first draft I took to completion was THE flippin’ NIGHT MAGE, which I wrote in the arse-end of 2016. Somehow, thanks to my own bloody genius, I’ve managed to give myself finishphobia*.
Thankfully, this time around, I’ve caught myself quickly, identifying the stupid critical voice for what it is: an imposter for my lovely, imaginative creative voice. So, I swear, I WILL finish this book. No matter how long it takes. No matter how hard it gets. The damn thing will be completed. And if it’s a pile of crap then, actually, it doesn’t matter, because right now the most important thing I need to do is finish a book. Any book. I’ve got to cure this phobia.
*Yes I made that one up.