Pyroxene of the Heart
What the hell does that even mean, Motoi Sakuraba? Really. Pyroxene is a type of rock.
The last few days have been alright, for the most part. I was really feeling out of it today, illness is besetting me. I had to lie down during a free hour, and I think toward the end of the day I really overexerted myself while blocking act two of the play (which is coming along well, as far as I can tell--I know that it's impossible to tell by this point how well it's going to go during the last two weeks before performance).
I majorly rewrote a whole section of chapter two of The Silence, so to those of you who have physical copies / old electronic copies, they are officially outdated. I hope this new version is stronger.
I really have not been happy with my novel in the past two days. Ever since my enthusiasm to "fix" all the problems that are being brought up by my bevy of unofficial editors, I am once more encountering the reality that nothing can ever be properly fixed, that some things will only work better than others. It seems to me that the first half of my book and the second half are profoundly different in tone and, yes, narrative ability. It feels to me like a high schooler wrote the first three chapters. Really, that isn't so terribly far wrong-- I was between sophomore and junior year of college.
I am going to have to learn how to let compliments affect my view of my material. I get half a dozen kids telling me every day how wonderful they think my story is, and I thank them for it, but inwardly I always brush off their praise because, "well, they're kids." Even my mom and my best friends, even my girlfriend, have a hard time reassuring me if my perception of it is that it's weak and full of holes.
I might have to wait a few months before I feel good enough about it to start sending it to publishers, and as agonizing as that is for me, as excited as I am to get started, I just won't be able to really look at it objectively for some time.
I should probably start on the second one soon.
It doesn't help that my odds are so small-- in investigating potential literary agents to send my manuscript to, I came across a newly-appointed individual who, in the first four days of her employment with her agency, received a hundred and twenty-six query letters, to which she replied to only eighteen, and sixteen of those replies only requested a partial manuscript.
Oh well. Cast your net wide, I guess.
The last few days have been alright, for the most part. I was really feeling out of it today, illness is besetting me. I had to lie down during a free hour, and I think toward the end of the day I really overexerted myself while blocking act two of the play (which is coming along well, as far as I can tell--I know that it's impossible to tell by this point how well it's going to go during the last two weeks before performance).
I majorly rewrote a whole section of chapter two of The Silence, so to those of you who have physical copies / old electronic copies, they are officially outdated. I hope this new version is stronger.
I really have not been happy with my novel in the past two days. Ever since my enthusiasm to "fix" all the problems that are being brought up by my bevy of unofficial editors, I am once more encountering the reality that nothing can ever be properly fixed, that some things will only work better than others. It seems to me that the first half of my book and the second half are profoundly different in tone and, yes, narrative ability. It feels to me like a high schooler wrote the first three chapters. Really, that isn't so terribly far wrong-- I was between sophomore and junior year of college.
I am going to have to learn how to let compliments affect my view of my material. I get half a dozen kids telling me every day how wonderful they think my story is, and I thank them for it, but inwardly I always brush off their praise because, "well, they're kids." Even my mom and my best friends, even my girlfriend, have a hard time reassuring me if my perception of it is that it's weak and full of holes.
I might have to wait a few months before I feel good enough about it to start sending it to publishers, and as agonizing as that is for me, as excited as I am to get started, I just won't be able to really look at it objectively for some time.
I should probably start on the second one soon.
It doesn't help that my odds are so small-- in investigating potential literary agents to send my manuscript to, I came across a newly-appointed individual who, in the first four days of her employment with her agency, received a hundred and twenty-six query letters, to which she replied to only eighteen, and sixteen of those replies only requested a partial manuscript.
Oh well. Cast your net wide, I guess.
posted by Nate at 4:46 PM
1 Comments:
always be casting it wide. don't ever stop stop.
Your work is good, I think sometimes you get lost in comparing yourself to writers that have been at this for 30 years and you grew up on, and also ones that write for a different audience. I know you know these things already, but your work is good. Do your revisions or I will slap you.
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