Lazy
One of the things that I continue to work on for myself is my perception of myself as essentially a lazy being.
On the one hand, I know I’m lazy. I spend an awful lot of time goofing off, reading blogs, playing games, etc.
On the other hand, I’m also aware that I’m not actually that lazy. I get a tremendous number of things done. Other people certainly don’t see me as lazy.
My most recent novel, Poisoned Pearls, that I finished writing today (woo hoo!) is a prime example of this.
I wrote one of the first scenes for this novel back in 1987. I didn’t realize it was a scene in a novel, just a cool scene that I didn’t know how to expand.
I envisioned the novel, with that scene in it, as a novel, back in 1998, I think. I called it my crack novel, because I was pretty certain that at that time I’d never be able to sell it to New York. It was just too odd, had too much sex, and crossed too many genre borders for it to be commercial.
I originally saw this novel as science fiction-or rather, some weird amalgamation of science fiction, alternate future, fantasy, and mystery. (Yeah, it’s kind of all over the place.)
When I went back and looked at my notes earlier this year, I saw that it was absolutely science fiction. No doubt about that.
However. When I started writing the novel, it came out as pure urban fantasy, with a slice of mystery. Only one character remained science fictiony.
After I’d written a few chapters, I slowed down. Stopped writing. Called myself all kinds of names.
Finally realized that no, it wasn’t me. It was the novel as I was writing it. The one character, who is vital to the plot, didn’t fit the current incarnation of the novel.
I was faced with a choice. I could either go back and rewrite everything else to be science fictiony, or I could change that one character, completely re-visioning him (re-vision, to see again.) It meant ripping out huge chunks of the novel that I’d already written and starting from scratch.
Once I did that, boy, did the words flow again. The novel became a joy to write.
Until suddenly, it didn’t. I slowed. I stopped. Called myself lazy.
Eventually, I saw the pattern. It wasn’t me. I’m capable of putting my butt in a chair and my fingers on the keyboard and cranking out words. Good words even.
I’d run into another section where the original plot of the novel no longer fit what I was writing.
When it happened a third time, I was much more ready for it. Didn’t flail as much. Didn’t call myself so many names, either. Pulled out stuff I’d written and tweaked and took yet another run at the novel again.
I know all of this comes under the heading, “Trust the process.”
If I’m slowing down, it isn’t because I’m lazy. Or that I hate writing. Or that I’m a total failure as a human being.
It’s because something is wrong in whatever it is that I’m writing.
I need to take a deep breath. Step back. Trust the process.
Trust myself.
Figure out what’s wrong, remove the obstacle, then move forward again.
It’s just that simple. And that hard.
Crossposted from my website. If you'd like to comment, you can do so here or there.