Writers Love to Write. Except When We’re Writing.
An affectionate look at the temporary insanity known as writing a book.
Writers are a strange bunch.
We love words. We love stories. We love creating something out of absolutely nothing.
We love writing.
Except when we’re actually writing.
Then we wonder why we didn’t choose something less stressful. Like bomb disposal.
Think about it.
Bomb disposal: Cut the red wire or the blue wire. One wrong move and BOOM.
Writing a book: Rewrite the same paragraph 47 times, question every life decision you’ve ever made, and then decide the FIRST version was better.
And that’s just Tuesday.
I know this because yesterday, after 16 months of writing, I finally finished my upcoming book, The Reluctant Intuitive.
My sixteenth book.
You’d think I’d know better by now.
Apparently not.
It Starts Innocently Enough
You get an idea. A wonderful idea. You can practically see the finished book sitting on a shelf.
So you sit down at your computer and start writing. Your brain then decides that the book is now the most important thing in the universe.
You think about it while you’re cooking dinner. While you’re brushing your teeth. While you’re trying to fall asleep.
You wake up at three in the morning because you suddenly realize Chapter 12 needs a different ending. So naturally, you have to write it down immediately. On a napkin. The back of an envelope. A grocery receipt. Or you email yourself.
I have sent myself more emails about this book than I care to admit. Half of them probably make absolutely no sense to anyone but me.
Then you have to read it through
Congratulations! You finished the first draft!
Now read it from start to finish.
Then you do it again.
And again.
And again.
You read it for flow. For continuity. For plot holes.
Wait. How did that character get into the kitchen? Weren’t they standing outside two paragraphs ago?
You fix that. Now you read it again.
Does the dialogue sound natural? Does the story make sense?
If you’re writing nonfiction (which I’ve done many times), did you just spend three pages explaining something you already explained in Chapter 2?
So you read it again.
Editing next!
Should there be a comma here? Or not?
Is that sentence too long?
Should this paragraph be moved?
Why does this sentence sound like it was written by a drunk squirrel?
Who wrote this paragraph? And more importantly, why did I let them?
And why does Chapter 14 sound like I was being paid by the adjective?
I find a sentence so bad I actually look around the room for someone else to blame. Sadly, I’m the only one here.
You fix those.
Then you read it again.
By the time you’re finished, you’ve read your own book approximately 100 times. You could recite entire chapters from memory. You know every character, every scene, every comma. You are intimately familiar with every single word.
And frankly, you’re getting a little sick of all of them.
The Final Read
Eventually, you announce that you’re doing ONE LAST READ.
This is it.
The final pass.
No more changes.
You’re just checking for little things.
Sure. It was a nice thought while it lasted because you just found a sentence that doesn’t work. Then you find another.
And suddenly you’re rewriting an entire paragraph.
Which means you have to read the chapter again.
Naturally.
At some point, you have to make a decision.
Is the book finished, or am I simply losing my mind?
The answer is probably both.
So you close the file.
But wait. You’re not quite done.
Now you send it to a few trusted friends to read. You know, just to make sure the entire thing isn’t total crap.
And then you wait.
Suddenly, every hour that passes without hearing from them feels like a personal rejection.
Are they busy? Are they still reading? Have they fallen asleep? Are they trying to figure out how to tell you that you should never, EVER write another book?
Eventually, the feedback arrives.
They liked it!
They actually liked it!
You sit back and stare at the screen.
And you realize…
You’re done. Really done this time.
After months of thinking about this book every waking moment, it’s finished. You should be celebrating. You should be dancing around the house. You should be opening champagne.
Instead, you sit there wondering what on earth you’re supposed to do with yourself now. The characters have practically been living in your house for over a year. And suddenly they’ve moved out without even leaving a forwarding address.
And Then Comes the Truly Insane Part
You wake up the next morning.
You have your coffee.
You enjoy the unfamiliar sensation of not having a manuscript demanding your attention.
And then…
A little thought creeps into your head.
You know, I have an idea for another book…
NO, you say to yourself. Absolutely not. We are NOT doing this again. Not yet. We are going to rest. Relax. Enjoy life. Maybe clean the house.
Okay, let’s not get carried away, but we’re definitely taking a break.
And then you find yourself reaching for a scrap of paper because you just thought of a fantastic opening line for it.
Of course, I once wrote a concierge training manual and then proceeded to publish six editions of it. SIX. Can you imagine how many times I’ve edited and read the bloody thing? At this point, I could probably recite it in my sleep.
Apparently, even I can’t take my own advice about knowing when to stop.
Writers love to write.
Except when we’re writing.
And apparently, we wouldn’t have it any other way.
Until next time!
Katharine 💜
