(In response to a blog entry detailing why the author could not write her best-selling novel idea.)
I wrote that novel.
I dove into it and wrote constantly. I brought my spiral bound notebook everywhere, writing during every free minute I could find. I brought it to bed with me, scrawling into the night until The Hubby grumbled at me to turn off the light.
I finished that novel.
I shared it with two trusted people. I shared it with two people who wouldn’t tell me if it sucked, but did tell me what they liked about it. I posted the first five chapters on my brand-spanking-new portfolio on writing.com. I earned a pretty red ribbon in a review forum. It was a 25k’er; not even the default 10k’er.
It’s awful. The description is weak and the characters are flimsy. The sexual encounters were less than amateurish. The fight scenes wouldn’t excite a starving werewolf craving a confrontation.
Without it, I’d still suck.
That was four years ago. Last year I dug out that 3” binder and read that novel again. I cringed at the thought that I considered it good back then. I could see – SEE – the improvements in my writing since then. I wanted to rip it apart and rewrite it, but it was so bad that I didn’t know where to start.
That story may never see the light of day. It might never get the revision it desperately needs. I love the main character and I’m visiting her again, but now I know that sometimes we need to write to practice and learn. Sometimes our stories aren’t meant for anyone but us. Had I known that then, I might not have spent so much time writing those 348 pages. It’s a good thing I didn’t know. It needed to be done.