Once upon a time…I wanted to apologize for my first novel, Man in the Mist.
I’ll be vulnerable and admit I didn’t think that just once. I’d be shocked if I haven’t thought that once a day since I decided to publish my first novel. I’ve stopped myself on multiple occasions from hurling a form of that sentiment from my mouth.
Why?
As a writer, I am a work in progress. I’m not a piece of fiction, so I can’t always turn the page and alter the thoughts running through my head. Man in the Mist is my first attempt to create a fictional world and driving down that foreign road ramped up the vulnerability factor flowing through my brain. Can we create a blood test to check for that (call it VF?) and prescribe some meds or strategies to fight it? Every writer would be happier. Being vulnerable is risky, but it’s the only way forward for a creator.
Apologizing for my novel’s errors and inadequacies is like saying my newborn baby is ugly. I will fiercely shout that all three of the humans I birthed were beautiful upon their arrival and still are precious treasures. Unfortunately, this ‘fourth’ baby, my first book, is different, though I wish it wasn’t. The critic lurks in the shadows of my mind. Slaying it is critical to survival in the writing arena.
While many authors find fame with their first novel, most do not. Admittedly, Emily Bronte deserved gold for Wuthering Heights. Death beats some to the acknowledgment of their brilliance. Emily Dickinson deserves an apology from the public.
If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me,
I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off,
I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way?
— Emily Dickinson’s letter to T. W. Higginson, 16 August 1870
It’s not my goal to be famous or even brilliant. (Well, brilliance is always an aim, but I’m not there, yet. Happy smiles.) It is my goal to grow in this new process and to get my writing in the hands of readers without fumbling and falling on my face. (Think Sandra Bullock walking the tarmac in Miss Congeniality.)
There were days, during the writing of this novel, my mind felt derailed, and I fought for the simplest of words. Words are tricky. Some days, words rolled onto the page like an accelerating roller coaster flying down the track. Those were usually the sessions I had the fortitude to remind myself I was stamping out a draft, that I was dealing with a work in progress. Other moments, and literally they could have been within the same day or hours, I was certain no author took as long as me to arrive at a polished draft. Did I say polished? I was sure I’d never arrive at anything shiny or clear. I pecked the keys into words that shaped an idea, only to realize what I thought had clarity and focus was still a jumbled thought mess. Just when the paragraph horizon seemed to be smooth sailing, I realized the maelstrom of a manuscript moment I was still swimming in.
A work in progress sign looks intriguing when it announces a remodeling project. You get to peek at the lovely changes at each stage. It signifies a well-crafted design is coming. We don’t put those work in progress signs on novels. The reader has to commit to following an author to discover the skills she’s renovated. I’ve aimed to craft a story worthy of the reader’s time, but my critic’s eyes see the many places I could hone and refine my craft.
I’ve chiseled my way through the edits and have deemed this the final cut—the product of a curious exploration of finding my voice and the threads I designed to weave a story. I’ll continue with the remodeling process. More writing. More editing. More finding my voice.
I’ll ride the way of this freedom until my vulnerability takes it back. I’ll keep the eternal critic at bay so I can swim once again into the choppy waters of writing and editing a story.
Enjoy Man in the Mist.