Sam Downing

Today I was chatting about our various writing projects to my friend Rachel, and she suggested that I don’t seem to be very fond of the actual book thing that I’ve written.

Fair enough. I admit to being a tad negative about it at times. (I may have even declared that “I. HATE. IT” at one point. Erm. I guess I felt dramatic that day.)

Part of that negativity comes from the fact that I’m revising it at the moment (well, not so much this week, but only because I’m working on a short story I’ve been plugging away at since, like, the 17th century), so I’m hypersensitive to everything that needs to be fixed; I need to be critical to improve it.

And yes, sometimes I have “dramatic moods” where I’m convinced it’s the worst 95,000(ish) words of drivel ever committed to paper a hard drive, and I’m tempted to drag it into the trash and permanently delete it. (However, I read today that a grumpy writer is a better writer, so maybe dramatic moods are a good thing?)

But you know what? Ultimately, I’m proud of what I’ve written. I’m proud that it’s complete, in the sense that I can give it to someone to read from A to Z and there aren’t any gaps in the storyline. And at the risk of sounding masturbatory, I enjoy reading it. There are bits that make me chuckle, and I like the characters. It’s not that I’m not fond of the thing – my book is like a sibling who I’m either comfortably close to or furiously frustrated with, but I always like that it’s there.

Even if it never ever gets published (which, let’s be realistic, is an uncomfortable possibility), at least I can say I’ve written something that I like. I assume (I hope) this sort of love/hate attitude is common among writerly types?

So my book is completed, and has been for almost a couple of months, but… I’ve now reached the stage where I completely and utterly loathe it.

I. HATE. IT.

I regard the entire thing with the sort of lip-curling contempt usually reserved for a dear friend you’ve travelled the world with and now despise. We simply know each other too well.  Every time I open it up on my Macbook, every line seems to stand out as awkward, pointless, simultaneously unbearably pretentious and boorishly mundane. The characters are irritatingly, the settings banal.

In my mind this book of mine has no redeeming features whatsoever. No one could ever enjoy it, let alone want to publish it. Which is not a good feeling to have about something you’ve dedicated approximately 7 billion years of your life to.

Rationally, I know this is a dumb attitude – I’m battling a nasty case of what Nathan Bransford terms the Am-I-Crazies. Putting a name to it is strangely reassuring, to know that other writers (particularly other published writers) have experienced this exact tumultous mix of emotions about the stuff that’s poured out of their head.

Bright side: today a friend of mine who’s read my whole book from start to finish offered some really great feedback about it. Yay! Hopefully that’ll give me the motivation to end my pity party and just get on with revising the thing.