I spent the morning’s commute trying to think of my next step. Here’s why that’s difficult: Writing is so intensely personal, you don’t want to move forward. You want to stand pat at that last step, massage what’s there, find a way to salvage it.
I write “salvage” as if something was given up, but of course it wasn’t. Writing may be difficult, but its permanence is sometimes surprising. You write something; it’s yours. It doesn’t disappear. Even if you burn the copies, delete the backups, it’s still in your head. It can come out later.
In the heat of the moment that can be cold comfort, to mangle a metaphor. Writing isn’t exactly like parenthood, but it isn’t exactly unlike it. You’ve nurtured this thing, shaped it. Why wouldn’t it be perfect to the outside world as well?
But it isn’t. You’re too close. You’ve been molding the work in your image, but once set free the dialogue falls flat and the rhythm stutters.
So. Clap hands to knees, lean forward, maybe stand and stretch at the writing desk. “Next steps,” you mutter, the words tasting of ash. Maybe a corner of a manuscript looks pleadingly from under a stack of papers; maybe you skim your mouse across a filename and feel your heart skip, as if you’d met a former lover on the street. Betrayal is there, maybe a feeling of having given up too soon.
Send it to one more agent, a voice inside whispers. Run it past one more beta reader. Spend more time. Make it perfect. Admirably, that voice doesn’t want you to give up.
It’s the only way forward, though. Resolve to come back. The work is permanent. It’s there, in thought and word. Find something that works first, something that sells, something that opens the door. Take the next step, and the next.
