I finally looked at Hive again today. This is after opening the file day before yesterday, and jotting down some notes on what I want to do with the rewrite yesterday. I added possibly half a sentence before helping my partner play-test his Troika pocket mod, which was a welcome distraction despite my never having really gotten into roleplaying games.
No, I haven’t brought myself to open the feedback from the sensitivity reading yet. Give me a few days.
Someone on Twitter recently asked whether anyone actually enjoys the writing process, and I feel compelled to state for the record that no, no I am not enjoying this writing process.
There are, granted, moments of levity and fun. When I started writing Dulcia, the novelty of writing a completely unserious, smutty Victorian-era book about Norman vampires propelled me for nearly 10,000 words, until I discovered that at this point in my life, I’m just not horny enough to write it. Hopefully I’ll rediscover the magic at some point.
There are also moments of unfettered inspiration. My poetry-writing is very much like that – I tend to edit them very little, and they come out in one freewheeling idea. But that doesn’t happen routinely, and within a novel inspiration is most often in thrall to character development, narrative, who needs to say or do what at this juncture of the book, how to demonstrate this aspect of your world-building. And it can get tedious.
Finishing my first draft of Hive felt triumphant. Commissioning and receiving feedback felt humbling. And I know that ahead of me lies a long and arduous process of editing and clarifying, rewriting characters, places and entire religions. This is necessary work, as I don’t want to submit a fatally flawed manuscript for publication, particularly when the flaw involves my unconscious and unintentional white gaze. In that sense I suppose it’s good that I’ve finally gotten over my white-woman fee-fees enough to look at the draft again. But still.
And the fact that I’m off my happy-focus herbal tinctures, for the same reason my libido’s fled from Dulcia, is going to make the slog harder.
At this point I also feel compelled to apologise for moaning about my rewrite. But look, you’re reading the weekly blog of a writer, so it’s your own damn fault for even getting this far down the post, okay. And hey, at least I didn’t spend my Wednesday post talking about the inauguration, so enjoy the distraction.
On that note I’m going to distract myself from the rewrite by cooking dinner, so if you still need to read about literally anything other than the inauguration and the reams of analysis which is accompanying it, feel free to scroll to the top and read this post again. 😉
Sonya Blanck writings 