I know, I know. Whine, whine, despair. Everytime I finish a novel, I look at it in wonder and I forget how hard it was to write. (I know the metaphore is childbirth, but since I had a spectacularly magical pregnancy and a wonderful birthing experience with only one strange Jurassic Park labor moment, and I remember all of it, that doesn't hold for me.)Then I anguish over the new novel I've started, wondering why ONE. I can't just rewrite the novel I've completed that I now love and TWO. I can't just write the new novel as easily and fluidly as I am CERTAIN was my process for every other novel I've ever written. All evidence to the contrary somehow doesn't count.
I despaired about all of this to a lifeline, an incredibly talented writer friend and she said: Don't despair, sugar, these are swings. Remember that. You need to just realize the novel's in process and it's all pains and spasms for a while and lots of anguish and unclarity. But that DOES NOT mean it's not going to be great or working.
I think that is advice so good I should tattoo it on the inside of my eyelids so everytime I blink I see it and remember. Or at the very least, it needs to be a voice loop in my head.
I like that, though. Swings.