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naomi_jayI'm still clawing my way through the second draft of SILVER KISS (optimistically hoping to finish off this weekend), and have reached a point where I'm adding in entirely new scenes. I rewrote a chapter last night, adding 2k to the novel as a whole, and am now working on blending this rewrite with the original material. And it's hard, man.
I get The Fear. I worry that the new writing jars with the old, that it's inelegant and sticks out like a sore thumb. I worry that the material I cut out in the first place was better than the new stuff. I worry that I'm making the story worse with the rewrites, not better. I worry that the end product will be a gargantuan mess that will take me years to wade through and set straight (in other words, I'm worried it will turn into Wild). And I worry so much that in the end I have to made a choice between stepping away from the laptop before I spontaneously combust with angst, or screaming "sod it!" and carrying on anyway like a British soldier at Rorke's Drift, only with werewolves instead of Zulus.So nothing like a British soldier at Rorke's Drift, in fact.
Last night I chose to step away. I had to remind myself that I've done this before. I've written fourteen novels now, and I've gone through this process with every single one (still am going through it with Wild and expect to be doing so for many years to come). I had to remind myself that I can do this, and do it well if I stop angsting long enough. Over the weekend I'll be digging in again and trying to ignore The Fear. And, failing that, fighting it off with Meatloaf and chocolate. Maybe wine. We'll see how bad it gets.
I get The Fear. I worry that the new writing jars with the old, that it's inelegant and sticks out like a sore thumb. I worry that the material I cut out in the first place was better than the new stuff. I worry that I'm making the story worse with the rewrites, not better. I worry that the end product will be a gargantuan mess that will take me years to wade through and set straight (in other words, I'm worried it will turn into Wild). And I worry so much that in the end I have to made a choice between stepping away from the laptop before I spontaneously combust with angst, or screaming "sod it!" and carrying on anyway like a British soldier at Rorke's Drift, only with werewolves instead of Zulus.
Last night I chose to step away. I had to remind myself that I've done this before. I've written fourteen novels now, and I've gone through this process with every single one (still am going through it with Wild and expect to be doing so for many years to come). I had to remind myself that I can do this, and do it well if I stop angsting long enough. Over the weekend I'll be digging in again and trying to ignore The Fear. And, failing that, fighting it off with Meatloaf and chocolate. Maybe wine. We'll see how bad it gets.
