6 things less painful than sharing the second draft of my novel
i'm doing really well, why do you ask
If you’re reading this, it means I finished a second draft of a novel I’ve been working on.
Don’t get too excited. I’m not. This novel has not sold, nor is it likely to anytime soon, if it ever sees the light of day at all (and the word “if” is doing a lot of work here).
The novel draft is, to put it mildly, a Very Big Mess at the moment. I have been thinking of it like shaggy bread dough that you’re supposed to hand-knead until its smooth, but so far, no matter how much flour or water or muscle I give it (and how much I yell obscenities at it on screen) it remains a sticky pile of shapeless goop.
There comes a point when revising my writing, at least for me, where I know there are specific issues but I cannot see a solution. Or, more accurately, I need someone to confirm the problems I see are real and offer a solution to them or a new way of looking at things.
This is why editing and revision matters! And why writing is a collaborative effort! And I love that! In theory!
But. That doesn’t make it any less panic-inducing painful to send the draft off to my kind readers, who are typically my friends, to tear my little pile of messed-up dough apart in order to make it come back together a little smoother (if you’re reading this and you’re also reading this novel draft: I love you, I’m grateful for you, but I have to write this newsletter entry to exorcise all the anxious little demons in my brain. Tear away, please!).
A draft of anything, really, is some loosely formed connected thoughts, scaffolded in such a way you hope your reader will mostly understand. But there’s no guarantee of that. Writing is a vulnerable act. And vulnerability is a bitch sometimes.
This is true of any creative project, really. Or just anything you care about and have sunk yourself into so deep you can’t see where you end and the thing begins.
So in honor of this particular flavor of anxiety I am experiencing, I thought I might compile a listicle of 6 things that would likely cause less pain than hitting “send” on an email with my novel draft attached to the people whose opinions and tastes I trust most:
My dog deciding he needs to crawl his way up his arm using his long nails while we patiently wait for the vet during his annual check-up. No, ma’am, the scratches are from my dog. Yes, he is a chihuahua. I understand it seems impossible for a creature under 8 lbs to do this kind of damage, but I assure you that it is entirely possible when he thinks I am abandoning him and making his ASPCA-informercial nightmares a reality.
Any of the insults screamed or muttered on the show Veep. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love watching those insults (and, recently, rewatching all seven seasons for like the third time). But if someone said the following to me pre-novel sharing, I would simply have to shrivel up and die on the spot: “Jonah, you're not even a man. You're like an early draft of a man, where they just sketched out a giant mangled skeleton, but they didn't have time to add details, like pigment or self-respect. You're Frankenstein's monster, if his monster was made entirely of dead dicks.” Now though?I’d take it as a compliment. (Confession: I definitely yelled this at my own sadsack of a novel draft more than once.)
Throwing my back out the same day I am experiencing debilitating period cramps. Have you ever felt a part of yourself, specifically your uterus, try to secede from the union that is your body? Like the American civil war, it was a bloody and painful affair that can change the course of history. But I’d revisit that special moment.
Watching JD Vance pretend he knows how to interact with service workers. Ok I know this is over a month old now, news-wise. That being said, the memes were elite. Keep it up, internet. He’s clearly a hetero-sectional alien in a man-suit (you read that right). We’re so close to revealing the truth about him, let’s go.
image courtesy of TMZ 5.My husband’s nuclear-level hot chili oil, which I accidentally added to a smashed cucumber salad once. I thought it was the usual, milder one that I can tolerate. I was nauseated for a solid 12 hours after taste-testing one (1) little bit. -500/10, don’t recommend. You think the worst part of making this dish would be smashing a finger without meaning to or something but believe me, you’d be wrong. I wasn’t built to withstand really strong spice and it shows.
chili oil picture courtesy of C Hawj Creations 6.The latest season of The Bear. What happened? Did too many famous chefs sign up to navel-gaze on screen and have their little cameo? Did the writers and director forget what “character development” means? With the exception of like, two episodes (“Napkins” and “Ice Chips”), the entire season felt like sticking my hand down a freshly sharpened, high-velocity garbage disposal. But that, too, is somehow less painful.
But anyway. I’m being facetious-ish.
A writing milestone is a milestone regardless. It’s worth acknowledging in a small way. Writing’s a lonely endeavor 95% of the time. And sometimes, it’s nice to express the pleasurable torment it gives me. Thanks for bearing witness to it, as you readers do for all my musings here at Nervous Wreckage.
For now, here’s to feedback and critique that takes the dough I feel like I’ve beaten to within an inch of its life and forms it into the shape it was always meant to be. I can’t wait to see it and implement it. I can’t wait to share it with you one day, maybe.
In the meantime, I’ll describe rereading my work in the words of the immortal Jonah from VEEP: “…[Read] this! This is fucking like being operated on by a chimp with a hard-on and a hacksaw!”