Me and my writing project
I started it in 2009, and I was SOOO excited about it. It was going to be the book that I worked on during my whole MFA program at UC Riverside Palm Desert, and I thought it was the most original idea ever. A novel about a machine that records dreams! What else do you need to know in order to understand that this is going to be a REALLY GREAT BOOK!
I’m not sure where my confidence bordering on delusion came from. This isn’t a prevailing facet of my character, but does surface from time to time. I was 28 when I came up with the idea, and my goal was to publish it by the time I turned 30. I thought that simply writing it and working with my famous writing professors and being extremely determined was enough to make this happen.
I did have a few agents interested, so I don’t know. I must have been doing something right. I don’t remember the plot of that first iteration. An interested agent had me work with a developmental editor, and $3000 later, she had me turning it into a medical thriller complete with detectives. I tried to contact the interested agents again once the revision turned overhaul was complete, but they weren’t interested, and, unsurprisingly, neither was I. I broke up with writing for a year or so, trying to get myself to see it as a bad habit that made me sad a disconnected from the world.
But then, I started writing again. I started new books. I wrote some memoir pieces. One got published and nominated for an award, so I tried to write a book length memoir based on that essay. It’s completed, on some backup disk shoved in the bottom of my green Ikea desk, behind all the paperwork I’ve saved: parenting handouts from my daughter’s co-op preschool, my pets’ (and there are many) medical records, a copy of “Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom” and notes to myself about how my feelings of self doubt may someday manifest as ailments in my uterus.
All of the new books I was writing though slowly started to turn into my old book. Clearly, my subconscious saw this as an unfinished project. I needed to finish it, again.
And again. And again. And again. The latest draft on my computer is titled 38. This may be the 38th time I’ve written it. I should have kept count.
This time, it’s going to be different. (Isn’t this what all delusional people say?) I’ve sent it off to writing friends, and received their comments. One person wrote to me twice, emphasizing how much she liked it! I nearly cried. “Someone liked my book,” I said to everyone I came in contact that day. My husband, who prides himself on his brutal honesty read it as well. I’m 11 years older and hopefully less delusional. Still confused about my place in the world as a writer. And my place in the world, period.
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