The Novel Diary: Week 72
Word count: 1,419 (Chapter 4 (2.0), 50,490 (total).
I should be writing in my novel, but I’m not. I have not written a thing in it since last Tuesday and here’s why: I am thinking about putting it down for good.
Though I joked a couple weeks ago about quitting, writing that I could put myself to better use, the thought has stayed with me. Perhaps, I have wondered, novel writing is not for me. Ever since I took my first nonfiction writing class in the fall of ’04, fiction has become less and less important to me. I have read fewer and fewer works of fiction and have written almost no fiction except my novel. I have written outline after outline, revised what little story there is a number of times, and only have 50,000 words to show for it after 17 months — six of which I did not write a thing (yet for some reason continued writing this post series). I have no motivation to write it. Truth be told, my novel is a big mess and I think the best thing to do is dump the whole thing.
Oh, believe me: I don’t want to. The last thing I want to do is quit. I have spent thousands of hours of my life on this thing and I will never get them back. The thought that they were all for naught disgusts me. But though I want to believe I can somehow salvage the whole thing, I have to face reality: I have already tried to resurrect it — multiple times — and always find myself in crisis mode eventually. Perhaps it is just not meant to be.
I plan to do some serious soul searching this week, but unless I convince myself otherwise I think I will press the big red button and nuke my novel. (I will keep it, of course, but will consider the current attempt dead.)
I should be writing in my novel, but I’m not. I have not written a thing in it since last Tuesday and here’s why: I am thinking about putting it down for good.
Though I joked a couple weeks ago about quitting, writing that I could put myself to better use, the thought has stayed with me. Perhaps, I have wondered, novel writing is not for me. Ever since I took my first nonfiction writing class in the fall of ’04, fiction has become less and less important to me. I have read fewer and fewer works of fiction and have written almost no fiction except my novel. I have written outline after outline, revised what little story there is a number of times, and only have 50,000 words to show for it after 17 months — six of which I did not write a thing (yet for some reason continued writing this post series). I have no motivation to write it. Truth be told, my novel is a big mess and I think the best thing to do is dump the whole thing.
Oh, believe me: I don’t want to. The last thing I want to do is quit. I have spent thousands of hours of my life on this thing and I will never get them back. The thought that they were all for naught disgusts me. But though I want to believe I can somehow salvage the whole thing, I have to face reality: I have already tried to resurrect it — multiple times — and always find myself in crisis mode eventually. Perhaps it is just not meant to be.
I plan to do some serious soul searching this week, but unless I convince myself otherwise I think I will press the big red button and nuke my novel. (I will keep it, of course, but will consider the current attempt dead.)
