Oh dear... I really did believe my days of procrastination were over - as far as writing was concerned. A year ago I was neck deep in excuses for not actually getting on with rewriting my novel: recovering from a difficult academic year, coping with the practical and emotional issues around an elderly stroke-bound relative and, almost as painful, staring at the previous draft and thinking 'so what?'
I then gradually emerged from this literary slough and entered an enthusiastic phase of brutally rethinking the story. Brutal, because some bits just had to go: beloved characters, cosy little flashbacks, other irrelevant parts which I'd simply wanted to include. Remove the ego from the writer and what is left? Hmm...
That spell of not actually 'writing' was far from wasted - though I couldn't have known this at the time. I read copiously about how to become a better story teller, I blogged loads: as me (what you're reading) and as a Russian cat (what you might want to read: http://lillias-bakhtin.blogspot.com) and I worked with a mentor. I suppose, with the clarity and objectivity that distance can bring, I did a lot of reflecting on the whole process of writing.
Bakhtin, another aspiring writer
And now I reckon I'm in the final stages of editing what will be the last draft - until and if an agent engages enough with the story to suggest further changes. So I should be racing towards the finish. For some reason this isn't happening. On a bad day, I'm hardly limping.
One friend has commented thoroughly on plot and characterisation and I've addressed his feedback. Another friend will wade her way through it - I've only sent her the first chapter so far - and will give me a thorough edit, as she's done in the past. But I'm not enjoying this phase at all. I'm down to my last checklist table - which may sound overly regimented, but with five viewpoints in the story this is the only way for me to be systematic. I work for a bit, become distracted for even longer - you name it: emails, surfing the internet, shopping, even housework. When I favour cleaning the bathroom and changing the cat litter over writing, I know that all's not well.
The big question is, I suppose - how do you know you are finished?
Discontentedly yours
Jane
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