…the novel you’re working on makes you cringe at the idea of actually showing it to someone.
So what to do. I can toss the whole thing, forget it ever existed, and start something else, hoping it’ll be better.
I can revise, losing large chunks of what I’ve already written and take the story in an entirely different direction.
Turn in my quill and admit defeat. I’m starting to understand why Hemingway drank so much. At least he ended up with something to show for it.
I probably shouldn’t have read this article about “How I Got My Agent” because the whole thing reads like a fairytale:
So, as it turned out, I’d spent six months obsessing and panicking about querying, only to get an offer of representation from my number one agent after two weeks in the pool. Was it stressful? You bet.
Forgive me if I can’t sympathize with her two whole weeks of ‘stress.’
Margaret Atwood was right.
‘Writing is not a job description. A great deal of it is luck. Don’t do it if you are not a gambler because a lot of people devote many years of their lives to it (for little reward). I think people become writers because they are compulsive wordsmiths.’
I either need a drink, or copious amounts of chocolate.