It happened again. I had two binders full of outline material to whittle down, and it collapsed under it’s own weight tonight. And now it’s shredded remains are festering in my trash can.
I’ve been trying to crack a science fiction novel for seven years since grad school. I’ve been thinking about doing an epistolary take on an alien invasion novel for the last four or five. Oh, there is a crack in the eggshell, but the yolk remains inside and unscrambled (sorry, haven’t had an omelet in 24 hours).
Funnies aside, I feel like crap tossing this out. I just like crap the last several times I went through this. and I’m going to feel like crap the next time I do it. It’s not the tearing of paper that bothers me, but the time and energy that paper represents.
Or maybe I ought to learn to let go. James Patterson once said, “If you don’t love it, you’re not going to finish the book. You’re not going to finish the outline. And that’s okay. That’s telling you that’s not what you’re going to do. You have an interest in it, you like it, but you’re not that passionate about it.”