Last time, I made the decision to go back to my second novel rather than continue on with the third one that started. It was just supposed to be a short story (#3), but the whole story started to unfold very quickly, and my fingers moved fluidly getting the new characters’ stories out. It was going places that were interesting enough to make me want to do little else.
Still, the people in the second novel called me back … and I’m glad they did. I feel right at home with them. I am rereading through the first 22,000 words, taking notes, editing, and making changes where needed. I am up to Chapter 5, and so far I am feeling pleasantly shocked about the story. I love those moments when you read something you wrote and you say to yourself,
“I wrote that?”
It’s so good that it’s hard to believe that came out of me. Why, as writers, do we do this to ourselves? Why do we doubt our natural ability to paint with words? Sure, sometimes it might take one hundred sentences to get one great one, but that’s just a part of the craft … partly because out minds have been trained so long against their innate creative impulses, but being the unique species that we are, sometimes we can overcome that conditioning and pour out something truly moving, and I feel I have done that in the first few chapters, at least. If you want to read it and give me some feedback, that would be wonderful…
As much as I fell in love with my first novel, it’s starting to feel second rate to this one. It’s a hard thing to admit, but it’s definitely a good thing!
Now to wait for some Mommy time to really get back into the stories. It isn’t exactly easy to become someone else and go someplace else when your 2 year old is on your lap playing ABC mouse on a split screen.
This is what happens when Mommy tries to write when kiddos are up: