Disclaimer: I realize what follows is not important in the grand scheme of things, or even in the small scheme. I'm lucky to have this little molehill of a problem, but this is a writer's blog after all, and we have a tendency to conflate and make mountains out of this tiniest little ideas.
So it's been a week since I finished the first draft of my second novel and, if I'm being truthful, not an entirely wonderful one. I know how ridiculous this sounds. "Waa. I finished my work. I accomplished my goal." But I feel like this is a part of the process that not many people talk about because they feel like whiners in mentioning it. I will now commence whining.
The rush of finishing the first draft lasted maybe 36 hours. And then I started to wonder if it was all just terrible schlock. And what was I even trying to say? And is this even original? And will anyone care? On and on and on until I couldn't stand the snarky tone of my own thoughts, and the only remedy, to read it from start to finish and check, was something I told myself I wasn't going to do right away.
I promised myself a proper break from the book--three weeks to a month of not looking at it--so that I can feel separate from it again before I get back to work. I am finding this self-imposed hiatus incredibly difficult to stick to. I want to read it, to know what's there and if some of it is good. I want to start tinkering and rewriting to fix what isn't.
I didn't give myself a break the last time I wrote a first draft of a novel and it had some deleterious results. I spent the next five years in a rewrite maze, trapped and completely lost, like Jennifer Connelly in that stairs scene in Labyrinth. So I know I need the overview, the pan-out, but I also feel addicted to telling the story, Everyone who knows me knows that I am pretty straight-edge, but I feel like I kind of know what withdrawal might be like now.
I'm trying, during this forced break, to take a look at some short stories I wrote that need polishing, to catch up on some seriously good books I missed out on while I was writing, to flesh out a few new thoughts that might become stories or poems. It's a distraction, sure, but I would be lying to say these things are satisfying me. The writing I poured so much of myself into for the past eight months is up on a shelf, and after that amount of energy and time and brain power and emotion put into it, I can't help but feel like the best part of me is away on the shelf too.
Blah. I know it will pass, but right now I am feeling these post-first-draft blues.
Erin Bedford, writer.