Books aren’t written

Michael Crichton was a pretty cool dude. He said this, which has been my mantra for the past few months:

“Books aren’t written – they’re rewritten. Including your own. It is one of the hardest things to accept, especially after the seventh rewrite hasn’t quite done it.”

I’m not on the seventh rewrite (yet). I think this is only the fourth, but I’m getting there. I sent my third draft to my first reader about a month ago and she told me, “It’s great, but it doesn’t have a middle.” I said, “I know, but I was hoping I could skip that part.” She said, “No. Middles are important.”

So I’ve been rewriting a middle. And once I rewrite a middle, I’ll rewrite the rest of it (again).

 

Murphy. The best writing companion.
Murphy. The best rewriting companion.
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writing is insane

I’ve been thinking a lot lately (okay, over the past couple of years) about how insane writing is.

I do pretty much the same thing every day, hoping it will take me somewhere new. I hope that even as I repeat the same actions, I’ll get a different result.

I read books on craft, I read books for fun, I think about how movies and television shows fit together, I help writerly friends refine their work, I send work for (possible) publication, and I write like a motherfucker.

I may as well jump a thousand times, thinking that someday I won’t simply land back on the floor, but that I’ll fly.

But that’s what writing is. It’s a daily grind, and it’s a lot of fun, and it’s crazy.

Here’s to the crazy.