Flabby Around the Middle: A Book Update
So as any of you who consistently read this blog, or hear me speak, or allow me to text or email you, know, I'm currently working on a book.
I've been working on the same book for like 4 years now, and it's starting to sound suspiciously like one of those sad stories of failure by "aspiring" authors who are "working on a draft" until the day they keel over dead from despair and heart disease.
Does it make me less of a cliche that I know I'm a cliche, or does it just make me a self-aware cliche?
I haven't talked much about the book on this blog, aside from sharing some concept art and the first sentence. I made the choice not to talk about the book for two reasons. The first reason is that when I started this blog, I intended to post writing advice for other writers, and posting my own work hardly qualifies. The second reason is that I knew it wouldn't be particularly interesting to anyone. Who wants to hear about someone else's half-finished project, after all?
But now that my audience has dwindled from "hardly anyone" to "crickets chirping in silence" (even my mother has stopped reading), I figure that frees me up a little.
There are two things I love about writing: beginnings and endings. Beginnings, especially, are a favorite of mine. It's so exciting to figure out where to open the scene, how to introduce characters, what kind of tone and tense to use. The foundations of the whole book are there, in the first sentence or two.
Endings are exhilarating. You get to wrap up all the action you set in motion, everything's coming to a head, and all that messy unhappiness and tension is resolved in a hopefully happy, but more importantly, satisfying way.
There's just one problem.
Middles.
The middle is the part where the main conflict is set up, and escalates. Basically, the summary of every middle, ever, is: "and then some stuff happened."
That is untrue, obviously.
But when I try to write the middle, that's how it feels.
My middles always sag. They have serious muffin top. They spill out of my literary jeans and jiggle around, being useless and embarrassing. And unlike my real-life muffin top, I can't just embrace them, because books can't afford to be plus-size. There is no fat acceptance in books. The literary world is a competitive place, and only the leanest, trimmest, most brutally muscular stories even stand a chance in the arena of publishing.
Right now, I've been stuck in the middle for two months. That might not seem like a long time, but bear in mind that this is my 7th draft of this story, in one form or another, and before I started, I had the whole thing outlined. I have a freaking OUTLINE, and I still can't make any progress. I sit down and look at what needs to happen next, and I just can't make the words come. Or else they do come, but they make my teeth ache with their dullness. I'm bored. My poor heroine is distraught and working her butt off, climbing through slimy tunnels and punching bad guys in the gut, and I'm throwing everything I can think of at her, and I'm still just bored. And if I'm bored, then who will ever be interested?
It's very discouraging. I'm almost out of time, and I'm nowhere near being finished with this book. In June, I'll move home and get a job. My student loans will come due, and real adulthood will set in. I will never get another chance like this, and I'm wasting it. I'm wasting it being stuck, adding more and more flab to the wobbly middle of this book.
This is the predictable ending. This is the one everyone saw coming: me, giving up.
I hate endings like that.
I've been working on the same book for like 4 years now, and it's starting to sound suspiciously like one of those sad stories of failure by "aspiring" authors who are "working on a draft" until the day they keel over dead from despair and heart disease.
Does it make me less of a cliche that I know I'm a cliche, or does it just make me a self-aware cliche?
I haven't talked much about the book on this blog, aside from sharing some concept art and the first sentence. I made the choice not to talk about the book for two reasons. The first reason is that when I started this blog, I intended to post writing advice for other writers, and posting my own work hardly qualifies. The second reason is that I knew it wouldn't be particularly interesting to anyone. Who wants to hear about someone else's half-finished project, after all?
But now that my audience has dwindled from "hardly anyone" to "crickets chirping in silence" (even my mother has stopped reading), I figure that frees me up a little.
There are two things I love about writing: beginnings and endings. Beginnings, especially, are a favorite of mine. It's so exciting to figure out where to open the scene, how to introduce characters, what kind of tone and tense to use. The foundations of the whole book are there, in the first sentence or two.
Endings are exhilarating. You get to wrap up all the action you set in motion, everything's coming to a head, and all that messy unhappiness and tension is resolved in a hopefully happy, but more importantly, satisfying way.
There's just one problem.
Middles.
The middle is the part where the main conflict is set up, and escalates. Basically, the summary of every middle, ever, is: "and then some stuff happened."
That is untrue, obviously.
But when I try to write the middle, that's how it feels.
My middles always sag. They have serious muffin top. They spill out of my literary jeans and jiggle around, being useless and embarrassing. And unlike my real-life muffin top, I can't just embrace them, because books can't afford to be plus-size. There is no fat acceptance in books. The literary world is a competitive place, and only the leanest, trimmest, most brutally muscular stories even stand a chance in the arena of publishing.
Right now, I've been stuck in the middle for two months. That might not seem like a long time, but bear in mind that this is my 7th draft of this story, in one form or another, and before I started, I had the whole thing outlined. I have a freaking OUTLINE, and I still can't make any progress. I sit down and look at what needs to happen next, and I just can't make the words come. Or else they do come, but they make my teeth ache with their dullness. I'm bored. My poor heroine is distraught and working her butt off, climbing through slimy tunnels and punching bad guys in the gut, and I'm throwing everything I can think of at her, and I'm still just bored. And if I'm bored, then who will ever be interested?
It's very discouraging. I'm almost out of time, and I'm nowhere near being finished with this book. In June, I'll move home and get a job. My student loans will come due, and real adulthood will set in. I will never get another chance like this, and I'm wasting it. I'm wasting it being stuck, adding more and more flab to the wobbly middle of this book.
This is the predictable ending. This is the one everyone saw coming: me, giving up.
I hate endings like that.
Nearly every successful author who talks about their beginnings as a writer, tells the same story. How they struggled with their first book, and often gave up completely and sometimes revisited it years later, after success. The point is, that all the effort and struggle you put into a project (even a failed project) lives on in you and builds your skills. You are a great writer.
ReplyDeleteIt's true, but this is far from my first book... I've been at this for 13 years, and I've finished several books. It's frustrating to feel like i will never get past the "beginning" stage.
Delete