I met with my lovely writing ladies on Saturday morning to tear apart my third draft of the BP. I was in a rut; I knew there were still things I needed to fix, but I wasn’t quite sure what they were or how to fix them. As always, A and V hit the trouble spots dead-on, and I am now filled with purpose! I know exactly what the problems are…now I just have to fix them.
That’s easier said than done. I’m too close to the BP now, and I can’t keep it all in my head at once. One small change often has repercussions throughout the manuscript. Keeping track of these repercussions can be overwhelming, so I end up making lots of flow charts and lists, while the BP sits like a lump in the corner mocking my obsessive-compulsive tendencies.
The silly thing is that I’ve felt this way at least a dozen times throughout this process. There’s always at least one problem that seems impossible to fix. In the early stages, there were tons of them all tangled together. Now there are only two. But those two seem no less impossible.
Each and every time I face one of these problem spots, I forget that I’ve gone through very same battle before. I forget that I will come up with a solution, and the BP will be much better for it. I would be a much more relaxed person if I could keep all this in mind.
And now, your peek of the week:
How long had he been lying here? An hour? All night? It was very dark. It felt like a long time ago that they had run him down in the middle of the street, right in front of his neighbors’ cramped houses. No one had rushed out to stop them, even though Chris knew his neighbors were there, watching through keyholes and from behind curtains. Things had crunched inside him. The team had stood above him, and Maxine had aimed one last kick. And then nothing.
His neck was stiff and sore as he lifted his head. There was a face in the window across the street. It retreated quickly, leaving the curtain swaying in its place.
Something was digging into his side, and he groaned as he rolled to the knees. His penknife lay unopened on the pavement. He would have laughed at himself, if it hadn’t hurt so much. What would he have done with a knife, had he remembered it?