I'm guilty of having had more than one celebration to mark 'The End'. When I finished the first complete draft...and it was shite...after finishing the first few edits... yes... it's all very exciting when you finish editing drafts 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 and even the 10th...but celebrating all these milestones is premature. I've had a very doughy middle for some time because my novel was only half cooked.
My Writers Group are convinced I am suffering from some sort of Mother Complex. Maybe I am but one does tend to write about the things they are familiar with.
After Lisa turned thirteen, Elizabeth Galsworthy-Grant turned into a one-woman precursor to Tinder. She became obsessed with finding her daughter a husband, preferably a wealthy one, so she would never have to contemplate that nasty three-letter word job. She could never understand why her efforts were always so unappreciated by her rebellious daughter, with her feminist views and ridiculous mantra...'I don't need a man to complete me.'
Three-and-a-half years ago, I had a lot to get of my chest. A series of bad events responsible for clouding my horizon.
With the summer months stretched out in front of me, I did what I have always done in times of trouble, I reached for my keyboard and poured my heart out.
I've learned by experience that one misconstrued adjective about a leading politician, even in jest, leads to the loss of hundreds of Social Media followers. And where would we be without our Social Media friends?
As Brexit looms, hard or soft, who knows? It is very tempting to let rip about how I feel about the UK leaving the EU. I live in Jersey, Channel Islands, our rock nestles off the coast of mighty France. So close you can almost smell the freshly baked croissants. If I shout, bon matin tout le monde from our north coast, I can expect to hear a rallying cry of bonjour mon ami echoing back across the 14 mile stretch of La Manche (English Channel) that separates us. Jersey may not be politically entwined with the UK, but I feel we are bracing ourselves for less of the bon accord we have so enjoyed for many years.
After three and a half years of my life and 92,000 words, I'm not going to allow my novel to wallow in the slushy stigma of rejection and, whatever it takes, I'm going to make it grabbable.
I've known about the Two Minute Grab Zone for quite some time and it's time I got to grips with it.
With all the upbeat bravado that goes into celebrating a New Year, it has been a sobering experience for me to start 2019 with a rejection. I am viewing the first rejection of 2019 as a part of my character building process. I haven't died, I will live to write another day. My determination, as well as desire to master the craft is stronger than it ever was and I'm on the way to developing a skin with the rigidity of an armadillo. So, that's all good.