I just finished (I say that loosely) a new draft of my novel.
I all but threw out the last draft and started over. The protagonist is the same, and her best friend—a sort of sidekick—remains. Other than that, the story morphed ahead several decades, and its focus became much smaller.
This writing process confounds me, yet I am in love with it. I spend so much time alone, mulling over words and phrases, wondering, “How would she really respond in this situation?”
I am taking a week-long writing retreat in Provincetown—the goal of which is to revise my novel manuscript, The Side Door. Gizmo is here with me.
The whole idea sounded vaguely romantic when I thought it up. But now, two and one half days into the retreat, I see the pitfalls.
I was just getting ready to leave for my Tuesday teaching day when I heard a familiar plunk inside my front door. Early. Eight a.m. I looked out the window to see the PO truck driving away, chugging up the street while our terrier mix Gizmo barked at the door where the package was left. I did not want to open the door because lately, these early morning deliveries have been sad. This morning was no different. I wasn’t surprised to find my novel manuscript, returned to me.
I know writing, creating, discovering has its rewards. And I know rejection is as common as Gizmo’s bark; still, the familiar ache never changes.