I knew there was no such thing as a good side of editing. After last week, where I was convinced my writing was terrible, I thought I’d done a pretty good job of beginning to sort everything out.
Then I went to the brilliant joust at Cardiff Castle, heard a Welsh legend be told by a wonderful storyteller, who finished with “but that is another story” and with me going “this could be the answer to everything!”
Turns out it is the answer to everything.
The answer to everything has basically detonated in the middle of my plot.
The answer to everything has just rendered at least ten thousand, if not twenty thousand, of the words I had only just finished rewriting irrelevant.
In fairness, the answer to everything has just solved my plot problems further down the line in book one and for the entirety of book two. So it’s not like I’m not grateful. Just frustrated.
Frustrated that it’s been a year since I finished my first draft and, given the crazy work situation I’ve been in this year, have only finished rewriting part one rather than the whole thing. That was the gem I was holding on to – that was the achievement that mattered. At least part one had been fixed.
Even when part one needed a fairly huge structural overhaul, I thought – at least the bare bones are the. I’ve finally figured out what those bare bones are now, so I can move forwards with this.
Then half of the bare bones changed entirely in the space of one day’s story and one evening’s research.
And I know that both my WIP and the inevitable sequel will be so so much better as a result, but right now it feels like I’ve sunk into a big pit of editing horribleness and there’s just no way I can get out of this and make this book into the thing it is trying to become and the thing it needs to be with this huge change. The change is is the proverbial missing piece of the jigsaw.
So why do I feel as if I’ve just failed miserably at writing – again?