I’m sick of my novel. If I got too close to a box of matches… I won’t complete that sentence. It might give me ideas best left alone. Instead, I’m dreaming of desk drawers. Or boxes under the bed. Or a shovel, tin can and the back yard. Give me a moment, I’ll be okay.
I don’t know if signing up for the a course on revisions started the desire to bury my novel, or only emphasized my writer’s angst. I have to bring a work in progress. No problem. I have one of those. Parts of it have survived my critique group. Parts of it haven’t. Survived that is.
But I also know that the beginning doesn’t work. At all. There is no tension. Nothing to draw the reader in and say “what the hell”. No compelling reason to keep reading. I have an idea how to change it, but it is like rebuilding a structure once the foundation is laid. Playing with the beginning could destroy everything else.
Each sentence I change leads to other areas that will have to be corrected later. The realization I have to take this mess to my first class tonight is giving me nightmares. So yesterday, instead of working on it, I played computer games. Something I never do normally. Great. That really helped.
Quick, someone take the matches away…