I have finished the rough draft.
This is, for me, a major accomplishment.
It seems that there are many different processes by which one may write a book.
Some people can just outline it all out, and then write a book that fits the outline, sort of the way that a builder will take a blueprint and build a house from the plans. If the builder is any good, the house ends up looking a lot like what the blueprints say it should look like.
Some people just start writing, and see where it goes. They just keep going and going, and then the rough draft is finished, and they might develop some changes after that. This is a more organic plan for writing.
I don’t do either. My special style of writing involves:
1. Start writing a story and go for between 100 and 150 pages. (1-3 months)
2. Realize that the direction that I’ve established in these first 100 to 150 pages is incorrect. (2-3 months)
3. Dump a large chunk, and start over with all that stuff. (1 minute)
4. Finish (a year or so)
When you look at it like that, it seems a pretty straightforward method; apparently, I need that process of starting it to really discover a direction, and then I cut whatever wasn’t going in that direction. But the problem is that this process is both time-consuming and emotionally draining. That first 150 pages is hard to get out. It often begins to feel wrong, and then, when I feel stuck, and start looking over it and realize that it’s not what I want or need, I really don’t want to throw any of it away. Step 3, which takes 1 minute? Step 3 is very hard. Very very hard.
I wish I could skip both steps 2 and 3. However, I’ve had to do step 3 three different times now; once for each book. It does not grow easy.
Then, when I’ve started going again, and this time in the right direction, it begins to get heavy in my brain.
The feeling is strange. I’ve got my normal life, with my wife, my two daughters, my friends and my job, and then I’ve got this whole different world that I am living in every day. A whole different set of people, and they are living through trying times, and I feel a great responsibility to these other people. I cannot take them lightly. So I go to work, talk to my family, play basketball, and all the time, I have the insistent whisper of nonexistent people in my head, always asking me to finish their story.
The main character in my latest is named Pug. I grew, over 2 years, to love him. I didn’t want to let him down. I didn’t want to disappoint him. He sucked a lot of life out of me, especially there at the end. I didn’t write anything else, just focused on him, and now . . .
I’ve finished the rough draft. The book is not finished, but it’s started, well started, and the hardest work is over. It’s a good feeling, and I’m happy.
