I have managed to stop sending my manuscript out after five submission attempts for no other reason than it seems that I have forgotten that I’ve written a novel.
I was asked to talk about my experience with The Antheneaum and I spoke in high regard for all of the great things I learned and all the talented people in my class until one of my teachers inturrupted me and said, “And didn’t you write a novel?” Oh yeah. I completely forgot.
My friend said to me, “oh my god you wrote a novel, how many people can say that?” Well in truth I think possibly thousands of people can say that. In fact, my friend who said this to me will be participating in NANOWriMo and by the end of November she too will join the ranks of novel writer.
I feel like I seem ungrateful to my own accomplishments, and maybe I am. Maybe I am just a person who will never be satisfied and will always wish or want something more. What is telling to me is that it isn’t publication that “proves” I wrote a novel because if it did I think I would be at least submitting it like one who wants their book to be read would submit. Personally, I think I am doing the classic, “no one can tell me sucks if they never get to read it,” bit. It’s okay, but my mom is going to kill me pretty soon if I don’t send her a copy of it.
I think I just don’t know what to do with it. Do I just look at it like some long ass exercise and let it go? Throw it away? That just feels weird to me, but people are always building things and them throwing them out right?
Anyway… I’m trying to move onto a new project. I am about to embark on a journey of history and playwriting. Yep, I’m planning on writing a play. Right now the idea is huge, but I have a writing coach that is helping me to narrow it down and make the subject matter workable. It feels weird having someone there to keep me on task. It feels like she’s making me work. Ugh!
I will be honest, if I actually write this play I may finally be impressed with myself. I am a serious professional dreamer and idea gal, but I am one hell of an unmotivated wreck. I am the biggest pain in my ass.
As far as the subject matter of the play all I can say right now (because it is still to big and overwhelming for me to tie down and describe) is that it has something to do with this book: