Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Just before I slipped the book into its dark, sequestering place, I wrote a letter to myself outlining all the things that I might do to right the book, to equal the dream I've harbored for two dozen years now of penning a real and actual novel for adults. Yes. It's true. I have harbored the dream of writing a novel for adults for more than two dozen years. I have managed to do much of everything but.
These past many days, in a fury, I have been reworking the book. It starts in a different place. It has a different mood. The underlying tensions have shifted and so has the war my Becca has with herself. I have been moving along. I have been building the story out, making room for surprise, forcing myself to dwell. And then, on page 72, I got stuck.
Around 4 this afternoon, I took a walk. When I came home, I cleaned the house. And there it was, this letter I had written to myself—the fix, the cure, the page 73 and on.
This wisdom, then:
Let your younger self talk to your now self. Let her laugh up at you, if she wants to.