For six months, I hated everything I wrote. I think I’ve said that here before, so I’ll spare you any rehashing of the sad details. Instead, let’s talk about now. Over the past couple of weeks, suddenly, I am writing a new story I really like with characters I obsess over.
“What is your story?” I find myself asking her. “Why did you leave home and never go back?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. She tells me she’d rather talk about that guy she just met, the one dragging her back into her old patterns and keeping her mind off the very question I keep asking her.
I think about her multiple times a day, every day, even when I’m not writing. The feeling is amazing. It’s a feeling I worried I’d lost for good.
But if your main character won’t yet be coaxed into revealing all the details of her past, it’s hard to write 2,000 words a day on her story.
So, while feeling optimistic, I opened up an old work I’d put aside months ago. You might remember I mentioned a novel about a genderfluid autistic boy. I put that project down when I panicked over getting the autistic boy’s voice right. That was one of the many recent projects I came to abandon, only this one had made it to 50,000 words. That’s a lot of words to just throw away.
I discovered, when I opened that project again, that the story moved me and I didn’t hate it. I heard the characters’ voices in it, even the autistic boy’s, and I connected again with the idea driving its creation. I fell in love with it all over. I already know how this one ends. I already know what these boys will go through. I just need to get the voice right and type it out to the finale.
From the time I wake up until the time I go to bed, I now have *two* stories on my mind. It’s almost like an affair. I should be dedicating myself to just one of them. But, strangely, it doesn’t feel like cheating. They just ride alongside each other like siblings in the back of a minivan with their earbuds shoved in their ears. They’re content to go together, but have no interest in communicating with each other.
That analogy kind of falls apart when considering the age difference of the characters in each of these stories. But you get the idea.
I have no idea when either will be finished, or *if* either will ever be finished. I have no plans to jinx this joy by giving myself deadlines. I’m just happy to again be writing something(s) I love.