I admit it. I fucked up! I got premature. I rushed.
It’s easily done. You write your first draft, it reads good, you think that’s it. It’s only much later when you reread earlier work amidst the frustration and anger of constant rejection that you realise… I’m shit!
It took having someone with real talent looking over what I thought was my best editing effort before realising what a fuck-up illiterate tool I am.
Now I understand I have to go back and do all those things the ‘how to write a novel’ advisory wankers told me in the first place if I’d only not been so arrogant as to to believe I could do without their advice.
I thought I had edited.
I thought I had rewritten.
I thought when the book said rewrite, check, recheck, re rewrite, that was for lesser talents than myself.
It appears I was a fuckwit.
I am currently editing, rewriting, rewriting, editing, rewriting, checking one of my earliest novels and guess what, the whole thing is a pile of shite and all because I didn’t try hard enough, didn’t check over and over until exhausted by the process.
When this bitch is ready to go online again this time I will know that it can’t be slagged for poor grammar, that if there’s a simile, metaphor, a better way of writing a piece of dialogue, in fact ANY enhancement I could have added, or indeed taken away, to contribute something to the text I will at least have considered it and dismissed the idea to the point that every full stop, comma but especially possessive apostrophe will have been mulled and checked at least a dozen times.
Finally, I’m a proper writer who checks and edits to the standard I should have fulfilled in the beginning. No shortcuts, no ego, no arrogance. I now understand exactly how little talent I have. I get that the first draft is a sketch which needs continuous working and reworking to bring to fruition. I know when to walk away, that nothing is ever going to be finished or good enough.
The trouble is, along with the urge to become better now there’s a nagging doubt that I’ll never be good enough. I wonder if being an egotistical ass might be more conducive to at least getting the first drafts on paper as I’ve ground to a halt on the latest because I now don’t think I’m capable of pulling it off (ooh doctor!) and I haven’t been able to start a new novel for precisely the same reason that I’ve managed to convince myself I’ll probably get partway through only to drop the Mutha because I’ve lost confidence.
Writing! What a bitch piss fucker of a nightmare.
Wish I was talented.