I am deep deep deep in the soul-sucking morass of inanity and stupidity and just plain sludgy boringness that is the middle of a book.
Gah. It’s at this point the call to give up and shove this steaming pile of horse’s bum-nuggets is strongest.
“It’s shit,” I say. “It is the most soapy operary soap opera that was ever vomited forth. Worse, it’s a boring soap opera. And why the fuck does everyone in the damn book have Tourette’s?” I then vow to to kill off the very next character who has the temerity to shrug, stare, or sigh. And I don’t care if it’s the fucking main character, I will stab them with this calligraphy pen. (because hammering them with the delete button is less viciously appealing.)
It’s the middle-of-the-book blues. You know, the long bit between the excitement of starting a new story and the thrill of the climax. Eh, the bit where most of the work happens.
So, a reminder to myself. Yes, the book is shit. It’s shit for two reasons (well, many, but two big ones).
One: It’s still growing. Like a teenager whose ears and feet and jawbone have outgrown the rest of him and is waiting for the other cells to get the message, a middle-of-the-book book is an ugly, awkward, zitty mess. And it’s insecure, poor thing. That’s why it’s sulking. And dressed all in black and playing shitty emo music at top volume.
Two: It’s a first draft. There may be nothing more hideous on earth than a first draft. Deal with it.
You have a thousand more drafts to beat this thing into shape. Relax, take a deep breath, and keep putting down words. One. After. The. Other.