I’m getting bizzare levels of book anxiety now. If I don’t get at least a chunk of this rewrite done each day then I’m getting worried. Sometimes this means I’ll try and write for a short while and start really beating myself up about it if I don’t feel I’ve done enough on it.
So doing nothing makes me feel guilty, only managing to do a little makes me feel worse. It’s really strange and quite horrible.
Add to this the constant sensation of this all being a waste of time. The loudest voice in my head is the one saying that this is just a hokey alien story set in Scotland that nobody will want to read. By the time this is anywhere near ready I’ll have been working on it for around three years. That’s a long time to work on something and it not to really go anywhere.
It’s been a frustrating day, just in case you can’t tell.
Conjuring up entire backstories of characters and inserting them into chapters is probably the most difficult part of this rewrite. My police officer was causing a bit a bit of trouble by the fact it wasn’t clear how he had ended up in a small town rather than the big city he started with. What exactly made him leave? Why wouldn’t he stay among the big smoke?
The simple answer is blood.
Or rather his inability to handle it.
I’ve given him hemophobia and made sure that most of his first few jobs in the city involved gruesome murders. The sight of such horrors has made him vomit in the nearest sink. He was then packed off to a quiet job by those above him.
I’m not really sure if this works as an excuse for him being here, it seems to much like he’d just leave the police all together but I’ve found that all of my main characters are running from something so it fits into the overall scheme. I seem to have given them all strange little faults.
Eleven chapters down, many of them with extra notes at the side in red font to give me a later heads up about bits that will need fixing. It’s full of things like “Would actual humans talk like this?” and “She was damp in the first draft, now she’s completely dry”.
Context is everything.
Whilst it’s not readable to the outside world at this time there are fleeting lines and maybe a couple of paragraphs when it reads like I really want it to. It’s descriptive, it’s darkly comic and it buzzes along.
Then it slips back into the same old and dull formula.
But those small moments are the charm.