The Rosewood House.
I love this story. It’s so cool.
Today, though, it’s giving me fits. Maybe it’s me giving me fits. I think I’ve got a mental block the size of Hoover Dam when it comes to beginning, and completing, a tale.
Chapter One daunts me because, you know, “You never get a second chance to make a first impression.” That’s all I think about. I wish I could surprise myself and grab an inner chapter for the opener; but, alas, no. Not even a prologue helps. (The prologue was easy to write, by the way. Go figure.) I’m actually not merely writing Chapter One for a book, but a series—this is the first introduction of protagonists and setting that will be carried through several more novels. So—wow. No pressure. Ha.
Interestingly, I’ve learned enough at this point that I could write a Chapter One with no trouble. As proof, I have a positively splendid opener for book two of this series. It just poured out one day. So why can’t I do the same with this? I’ve always said that rewriting is harder than writing, so that may be part of the issue. Chapter One, Book One, has been on the board for five years. I can’t see it fresh anymore—all I’m doing is thinking, “Oh, that sounds awful.”
Sigh.
And the completion part? It’s not hard to write the ending—I love tying up loose ends. I’ve got the last chapters written already. However, it’s the sitting down and gearing up the brain to put all the chapters together, in a completed form, that seems so out of reach for me now. My Hoover Dam was built by years of not completing projects, for one reason or another. The only time I’ve finished a novel was when I didn’t know that I couldn’t. If that makes sense. I’ve fallen into the habit of discounting that achievement (because, really, it was pretty bad); but maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should build it up, make myself realize—I am a novelist with a completed novel. I went the distance. I finished the race. I wrote “The End” and printed a copy for people to read.
Hm, that reminds me—I also finished a novelette once, and more people read that one. I even submitted that to an editor. Yes, I’m currently rewriting it now—but it wasn’t bad. Why did I forget that achievement?
What about 150-some-odd blog posts? Those were all finished. Lots of people read them. Doing the math, figuring that most posts were at least 600 words, that takes me to ninety thousand words. Holy cats, that’s a novel!
It’s not about word count, of course. It’s about words. But at least I can tell myself that I went the distance before, so I can do it again.
Okay. Off to get some coffee and chocolate and put this chapter to bed…once and for all.
It’s time to finish this book.