I think I have never been as ecstatically excited and terribly terrified about one thing at the same time. “Project Book” is moving along rather nicely. Characters in place, plot divided into 30 chapters; set up, major disasters and ending defined. It should take me less than a day to finalise the outlining process and then, ladies and gentlemen, the actual writing shall begin. And this is where the confidence slowly makes for the back door.
Don’t get me wrong, I absolute love writing, I am thrilled and completely euphoric about the thought of writing a book. I am more than happy to fill every available minute with either reading for research purposes or hacking frantically onto that old Mac of mine. Ok, not every minute, I am still being bossed around by Mr. Cottonsocks on Thursday mornings. Nobody has to actually SEE that I spend most of my time sitting on my bum.
Saggy bottoms apart, my free time is firmly subscribed to the book. And so far, I found it surprisingly easy. I am happy with my characters, I am happy with the story, but the writing… What if my writing turns out to be so bad that the story becomes irrelevant? What if people laugh at me and about the story? What if they laugh about the bits that are not meant to be funny and frown upon the parts where I was hoping to have them giggle at least?
Funnily enough, the absolute worst thing that could happen wouldn’t be not to find a publisher. The worst thing would be to find a publisher who publishes a book he/she is not 100% convinced about. A book that people start reading and can’t bear to finish. I have been there. I have put books away or ‘unfortunately’ lost them on the train.
Like many first novels, parts of mine are autobiographical. Getting the novel published would mean it was out there. Of course, having a blog is putting me out there already. But not in a way the novel would. For example, I am not writing about my sex life here. (Considering my recent blog stats, that might not be the worst idea.)
The thing is, the heroine in the book is not me, but there are a few traits we share. How would people differentiate between her and the real me? Can I let her go a bit overboard without all my friends thinking ‘Met Mum is such a slut’?
I know what you are about to say: cross that bridge when you get there. And don’t worry (or maybe do?), published or not, I am going to write it anyway. It’s at times making my stomach churn and my head spin, but I can’t help it. It’s something I just have to do.