We're here in Paris, and to better experience the city, I've been reading A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway's memoir about living and writing in Paris. In the book, Hemingway reveals what I think is one of the hardest parts about being a serious writer, a writer who cares deeply about the quality of his or her prose.
Photo by Katie Mollon (Creative Commons)
It comes when he's talking with fellow expatriate author F. Scott Fitzgerald. They're drinking whiskey at Closerie des Lilas, a restaurant that still exists in Paris, and as they drink, they talk about their writing habits.
At the time, Hemingway is somewhat awed by Fitzgerald, who was older and more experienced than the 25-or-so-year-old Hemingway, Fitzgerald having already published a few novels, including The Great Gatsby, and several stories in the Saturday Evening Post.
Meeting Fitzgerald and talking about his writing convinces Hemingway that he needs to write a novel of his own, but the form intimidates him. He says:
But it was very difficult, and I did not know how I would ever write anything as long as a novel. It often took me a whole morning of work to write a paragraph.
Great Writing Is Slow Work
For the last few weeks, I've been able to spend more time on my creative writing and less on commercial work. It's wonderful, but it reminds me how much longer it takes to write good creative prose than it takes to write blog posts and journalism and non-fiction books.
For example, to write my posts for The Write Practice, I usually spend a morning writing, between three to five hours. However, when I write my essays for Goodbye Paris, it takes me about three mornings for pieces of roughly equal length. And even then they often need feedback from others and then more work afterward.
Creative writing is slow work, slow work that requires patience, discipline, and doggedness to finish no matter the cost.
The “Secret” to Writing Well
I've talked to so many writers who have great ideas but just can't seem to finish them. Many of them are even very good writers, but they can't complete their novels and plays and short stories.
Writing inspires them, entices them, but ultimately leaves them defeated. They email me disappointed, asking me what they should do to finish their ideas. “My ideas are great. Everybody says so. But I just can't seem to finish.”
I wish I had a better answer, some secret technique to turning your ideas into perfect novels, guaranteed bestsellers, masterpiece works of art. But I don't.
“I don't know,” I tell them. “Honestly, I'm right there with you, and so was Hemingway, and so were so many other great writers. It's very difficult. The only thing to do is keep writing.”
Are You Up For the Difficult Job of Writing?
Are you up for that? Are you willing to make space for your writing? Are you willing to say no to great opportunities, even new ideas that other people tell you are genius, so you can finish your single paragraphs that take all morning?
Can you keep writing even when it takes three times longer than you think it will?
Writing a novel is very difficult. Are you up for it? It's fine if you're not, but if you think you are or you want to be, you need to learn to be dogged, to never give up, to keep writing no matter how long it takes. Writing is a hard job, which means that if you want to accomplish it you need to become hard yourself.
How about it. Are you up for it?
PRACTICE
Today, work on your work in progress, no matter where you are in the process. If you don't currently have a work in progress, write about a writer who has been working on a single paragraph all morning. How is he feeling? What is he thinking about?
Write for fifteen minutes. When you're finished, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, make sure you give feedback to a few other writers.
Bonne chance!
I’ve written a novel and had it copyrighted for my sake, I guess to prove I could do it. It’s very long. I was stumped by three agents who didn’t seem interested. I have to take it out again and see where I stand in my own mind…to see if I should self-publish…and all that it entails, meaning self-promotion. But looking back, I never really gave it a chance. It is worth that at least. This is the year.
Carole,
What an accomplishment! To write and copyright a novel is such a huge job. You should rejoice and give your manuscript your best shot. Maybe before this year ends you can see it published. Just keep working.
Carole, congrats on finishing a novel! Altho it’s hard to be rejected by agents, try to remember that not all of them will be a good match for your book. Kathryn Stockett was rejected by over 60 agents before she found one who believed in The Help! And, JK Rowling rejected by dozens for Harry Potter – keep sending it out!
Give it a chance, Carole!
Right now I am stuck in the last part of my novel. I have been writing for almost three years and I would be lying if I pretend I did my best to finish it. But I have worked through very hard circumstances and I am ‘dogged’ to accomplish it the best way I can. English is not my first language and the possibilities of publishing my novel in Egypt are not that encouraging. But I don’t allow all the negative thoughts that hammer my head day and night hold me back.
My characters keep me going, they have become part of my life and sometimes I feel it is them, not me who actually write. When I am discouraged for one reason or another I do something that may look stupid but it does work for me: I ask them to write their own version of the novel. And they use my mind and hands to write. They provide me with solutions for the most difficult problems that keep me awake at night. Maybe you will think I am crazy but I will give you an example. In the last part of the novel I had some dangling thread that I failed to pull up together. I did not know what to do with my antagonist. I let her write to me and she did. Here is what she wrote:
How dare you leave me out of your last part like I was
nothing? You think you can get away with it?
You cannot just eliminate me whenever you feel like it because you hate
me and I cannot speak for myself. I am
your antagonist, don’t you ever ignore me!
I will ruin your story, I will show the world how lousy a writer you
are! You don’t think I can do this? Of course you are the one who will doom yourself
to it, not me. What am I anyway? I am only one of the people you made and hated
and could no longer stand my presence in your story. But make sure you won’t
get away with it. I won’t lose much if you force me to disappear in your last
section. After all I am just an ink creature. You will be the one to lose. In
losing me you lose part of who you are, a piece of you that could have still
breathed and lived and filled your world. You are limiting yourself, not me. I
will not die anyway, you will find me haunting your day and sleep. You will
find me jumping into your very next book, or even worse, taking shape in your
personal life. Beware of me, I will not leave you alone! I am Maha Ghanem, the one you suffocated with every breath and success you gave to your precious sweat protagonist!
Her words were the last I wrote before I slept and the very next morning I found a solution for her.
Writing a novel is just a long term project that permeates your life. To me it is just like raising a kid.
I don’t think it’s crazy one bit, I love your idea to allow your characters to write for you when you are stuck! I am going to try this…I have to say, that Maha sure has a strong voice! Keep going….I hope she helps you finish.
Margaret,
Thank you for the encouraging comment. I hope it works for you.
Letting the characters talk while we write was the topic of a post here about two (?) weeks ago, CHARACTERS AS MUSE (or something similar) by Jot Collado. Mine have been helping me in ways that is blowing my mind!
Though it’s not exactly a current wip, it bugged me a lot that I made quite some mistakes in it. But now I made some changes, though I know it could be way better – but it’s enough for today 😉
It’s also quite a long story, so I post only the beginning. If you fancy reading the rest, let me know.
As Polly the vampire sheep met the old woman, she hadn’t had any blood in days and felt weak. She even tried to eat grass, just like she used to do when she was still a normal sheep, but it didn’t help at all and had only made her feel worse.
You might imagine how relieved Polly was to see the old lady running around a house which was built of bread and covered with cakes, bantering happily with her black cat while collecting wood. Not that Polly paid much attention to the house, it was more the old woman that interested her. And even though this lady was the most ugliest woman she had ever seen in her entire sheep life, with a hump and a big wart on her nose, it did nothing to stop the starving sheep.
So Polly staggered forwards, carefully breaking through the thick undergrowth of the dark wood, hiding her pointy teeth so that the granny wouldn’t be suspicious right away and tried to hush her growling stomach. But the old woman wasn’t deaf and heard Polly approach, and suddenly swirled around and threw one of the thick branches at Polly, almost giving her a heart attack.
Polly only managed to dodge the branch because of her vampiric powers, which, even though she was starving, were still present and made her way faster than any other sheep in the world. Usually, Polly would have been proud of this, but right now she didn’t care much about her enhanced abilities. She was hungry like hell and she would drain this stick throwing old bat.
A vampire sheep with attitude. What fun!
Thank you Marilyn! 🙂
Bonjour, Joe! How fun to read Hemingway and share your insights while you are in that great city. I love the truth of this post. Writing IS slow work. Each sentence, sometimes even a word is like digging for gold in an abandoned mine. Oscar Wilde pretty much summed it up when he said “This morning I took out a comma and this afternoon, I put it back in again.” S-L-O-W work is right. And yet, to me it’s worth it. Each nugget I discover and each finish line I cross feels like a major accomplishment. I Just entered a short story contest (2,5oo words) and my first attempt at fiction. I made the deadline just under the wire and almost quit a dozen times. Doubt, fear and that old “can’t” word shadowed me for the two months I took writing the story. Don’t think it’s up to the contest standards, but I feel good for having finished and having the courage to put my work out there….
Here is the first paragraph of the story (haaa – I edited it again this morning even though it was sent a week ago…)
When daddy left in April, mama told us to stop calling her mama. “My name is Yvonne and that’s what I want you to call me now.” She was stirring the tomato soup on the two burner stove that scorched up the counter so bad it had more craters than my geography project of the Grand Canyon. “No sense pretending we’re a real family with your daddy gone again. Besides, I never wanted to be anyone’s mama in the first place.” Even when a bad fever made Finch call out to mama in the middle of the night, Yvonne just rolled over in the bed next to us and said “Natalie, tell your little sister there’s no mama here.” I turned ten that summer and was older and smarter than Finch, but calling mama Yvonne felt like taking the Lord’s name in vain….
Congratulations on making the deadline Margaret! That IS an accomplishment. Now when is the next one going to be? 🙂
I really like your story. What a strange and telling first line!
thanks, Joe! Working on the novel now. It’s my first love and has been in my head and heart over 6 years now. The short story was a distraction from that…btw, a great piece of advice I received recently from an author was to not look at a novel as a book. She said it’s daunting for even the pros and suggested I just keep writing scenes as they come to me and weave it together when I have enough scenes….food for thought.
Good idea, Margaret. You should write a guest post for the Write Practice about that. 🙂
I just might do that once I get a few more scenes under my belt 🙂
Nice work. The last sentence really grabbed me.
thx, Marilyn!
Great opener! Sounds like a story that would definitely hold my interest. Very well written too.
thx, Joanna!
You’re very welcome 🙂
The last few sentences really strike! Like it a lot.
thx, Hanni!
Hi Joe
I loved this post. It’s nice to know the greats struggle as well 🙂
I must confess my real challenge comes in the edit. I can quite happily throw thousands of words on the page on a daily basis, but the slow steady approach that effective editing needs has me often frustrated.
On the plus side, I’m reaching a point now where i can really tell the different in quality between my older stuff and current WIP and it’s because of the editing and the things I’ve learned along the way.
I’m also learning to enjoy editing, bit by bit, as I recognise that a first draft is exactly that. I’ve stopped saying my book is finished and started saying my first draft is complete! 🙂
The point being, it’s all about the time. The amount of time you’re willing to put in and the dedication required to do so.
cheers
Mike
Exactly, Michael. As I was thinking about this post, I meant to mention something about editing as part of the part that takes forever, but then I got focused on some other aspect. I’m actually a slow writer AND a slow editor so it’s doubly bad! 😉 Thanks for chiming in.
I feel that pain, Joe. I can edit at a decent speed–I even enjoy editing and revision very much. It’s getting something valid to edit that’s been elusive for far too long. At least I know I am in great company on so many levels, lol.
I think it took JRR Tolkien something like seven years to write The Hobbit, twelve years to write Lord of the Rings, and most of his life to write the stories that eventually became The Silmarillion. That’s how I am… I started my first real novel-writing attempt about six years ago, turned the project into a short story about two years ago, and am STILL making minor edits on it to this day. I started another novel two years ago, have written several rough drafts, and am trying to figure out what to do with the latest one which is finally getting close to what I want but is incomplete. It really can be hard to stick with a project for as long as it takes to really perfect it. If it’s ever perfected. And I’m sure, even after publishing, most authors continue to tweak their stories.
But… in spite of all the hardships… I love writing. 🙂
I wish I would have written only one complete draft for a novel, yet alone the editing. All I ever managed are short stories about 2000 words long, before I turn to another little project, and this is already quite some work for me.
Yes, he fascinates me. He was weirdly un-prolific, wasn’t he. But his inner world was so full. I admire him because it wasn’t about audience or being a great writer for him. It was all about the stories. But I also wish he had been more focused on publishing! Oh well. He was probably a good professor, right? 🙂
I like Steve Job’s quote, Sarah. “Real artist’s ship.” Perhaps it’s time to send out that story and work on the next thing.
This from my WIP, children’s historical fiction that takes place in 1928 in northern Minnesota:
“Psst, Lilly. Wake up,” Dorsey whispered. “This is the first day of school.”
“Leave me alone. “I’m still sleepy.” Lilly mumbled, pulling the blanket over her head.
“You old sleepy head. Get up. We can’t be late,” Dorsey said, still whispering, so she will not wake Lola and Henry, who are too young to go to school. “You know you want to wear that new dress Mama made you. It looks so pretty on you with all those tiny blue flowers.”
It’s true. Lilly can hardly wait to wear the new dress with the Peter Pan collar that Mama sewed in Iowa when they were harvesting corn. It makes her feel special. She almost never gets to wear new clothes. Instead, she wears clothes that Dorsey or a cousin already outgrew. Hand-me-downs, Mama calls them.
“I can smell homemade bread toasting in the skillet. You know how much you like it with strawberry jam. Let’s wash our faces and get dressed,” Dorsey said.
Soon the girls climb down the rope ladder from the sleeping loft. Mama gets up early to start a fire in the wood-burning stove, where she is cooking their breakfast. She turns when she hears them, “It’s about time you got down here.”
Dorsey is so excited to be going to their new school she can hardly eat, even though it is her favorite breakfast. When she plays school with her sisters, Dorsey uses a small piece of slate and a sharp rock to teach Lilly and Lola the alphabet. She wants to be a teacher when she grows up.
“I wonder what our new teacher will be like,” Dorsey said.
“I hope she’s pretty,” big brother Fred said, walking in on the conversation. “I’ve done my chores, Mama. Come on you two. Eat up. We have nearly two miles to walk to school.”
Thank you for posting this today. My WIP was calling my name when I woke up this morning, but I kept finding excuses, and I usually do WP before I start hammering on it to get “warmed up.” Instead I dove right into a chapter that has been bothering me for awhile. I definitely struggle with seeing projects through, after that initial rush of getting things out that you want to say, trying to mould it into something people can actually understand can be a drag. I need to find a way to keep that portion inspired.
Hope Paris is treating you kindly!
Sounds like good timing Martha. Thanks. 🙂
OMG. Reading the comments. Thanks to everyone who shared and commented. It’s a relief to know that others are going through the process; yes…the editing is tricky Yes…the characters keep you going. They are real people and call out…it is not crazy. Thanks for the post…I so appreciate the comments and will probably come back for encouragement. Writing is a solo process, above all unless we engage with others. I have not done that in a while. It feels sooo good. Thanks.
No need to go solo, Carole. Glad you found some encouragement here. 🙂
Carole,
You are absolutely right. It does feel good to share. It is the first time I try it and I feel better already. Keep going.
This is more a story about someone who hadn’t been productive in months. It’s the only thing that hit me as I read the prompt:
Ideas hadn’t come for months. Harper had already been reduced to part time slash work from home status; he wasn’t much use to a brainstorming agency without ideas, good or bad.
Harper had exhausted everything he could think of to restore the muse. He’d tried peppermint aroma therapy, talking to a motivational speaker, sessions with a counselor, seeing movies about big ideas (hoping they’d ignite his own), and even banging his head on the wall to jar something loose.
Nothing worked.
So he resorted to staring out the window as spring gave way to summer which gave way to fall.
As the weather cooled and trees began to shed, something happened. Harper noticed a certain tree, fifty or so yards away, started to get weird. There was definitely something in the branches. But he couldn’t see exactly what it was, as the remaining leaves formed a sort of protective cover. He continued to watch, but it was exhausting, as only one or two leaves fell a day. The tree was taking its sweet time.
Finally, when the first frost hit and Harper was on his last nerve, the final leaf fell.
What Harper saw made his hands and legs shake. The branches twisted themselves, perfectly, into the word, “SEE.” This wasn’t like some Jesus burnt into toast. The letters were unmistakable and impossible. He even took a picture with his camera – as speculative things never appear on film – and saw the letters clearly in the photograph.
For the first time, Harper felt hope. Legs propped up on a small cushion, he smiled while staring at the words. Things were going to turn around, he just knew it. It was time for him to “see” the ideas. After all, the tree was right there telling him to.
And so he watched and saw and noticed and worked. The next meeting was a disaster. And so was the next one. Whatever the tree was supposed to be telling him, Harper didn’t feel any different, so he became obsessed with the “SEE” tree. Not necessarily because of the extreme unlikeliness that branches could twist and turn to form words, but because the enormous, made-just-for-him sign that was staring him right in the face ultimately didn’t produce anything. Sitting in his seat and staring out the window for hours yielded nothing in terms of ideas or muses or paragraphs. And it was infuriating. What’s the purpose of an inert heavenly sign?
Finally, after crying everything out at his desk, Harper had had enough. He was going to the tree. Maybe touching it or getting a close-up might reveal something. Just in case, he brought a saw. If it came down to it, he wasn’t opposed to a little threat. He waited until twilight fell; that way, if he needed to climb up, he’d wait til darkness fell.
That evening, just as the sun hovered over his left shoulder, Harper climbed out his back window. It was odd, but he wasn’t letting the tree out of his sight. Then, he climbed his brick fence, scaled his neighbor’s wall, opened his neighbor’s gate, walked through his neighbor’s front yard, and froze. Just across the street, on a haphazard lawn, was the tree. And the words still stared at him.
Slowly, as if in a trance, he began inching toward the curb, the tree still in his sight.
Very interesting story! There’s something about nature that makes us want to get to the bottom of it, and yet it remains elusive no matter how hard we try. Have you read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard? She has this obsession with seeing a tree glow, seeing all it’s energy purely, and then one day it does and it nearly blinds her. This reminded me of that. You might check it out.
Thanks! I haven’t heard of the story, but will definitely check it out… I’m going right now, LOL 🙂
Hey Joe. What do you mean “How is **he** feeling?” ?? Why is the word “writer” automatically paired with the masculine pronoun?
(Just pushing your Parisian buttons. 😉 Have you tried one of those chocolate banana crepes on the street corner yet? )
Good question, Birgitte. I’m usually pretty good about that. Check the first paragraph. I suppose sometimes they really are he’s though. 🙂
Of course they’re he’s too. And lovely he’s, too! 🙂
Don’t leave Paris without the chocolate crepes….
It was already 11 o’clock. Three hours had scraped by, and I had written less than half a paragraph. I forced myself to smile at my computer, the way you smile at a know-it-all friend as you imagine what it would be like to smack him or push him backwards off a raft. Joe tells me that smiling helps – reduces stress by up to 20%, even! – but then he’s one of those know-it-alls. I turned my f-you smile 20 degrees and beam it at his photograph tacked to cork board next to my computer. It was a relief to look away from the words on the screen; just then they were beginning to look, to my eye, like the detritus you would collect on the beach after a small shipwreck. Or worse – that sort of jumbled rubbish is usually imbued with some sort of mystery and character, two qualities I had started to believe would remain entirely absent from not only my work, but me personally.
The room was too hot, I suddenly decided. The air floated like a thick mist around me, cloaking me with additional sweaty layers of skin. I thought about stripping down to my briefs, but couldn’t bring myself to move closer to the image of the crazy naked philosopher-writer, since it was bloody obvious I wasn’t actually doing any writing. Instead I settled for opening a window – the one at the furthest end of the room, a good excuse to have a few more seconds away from my desk. In the corner of my eye I saw the words of the screen fade away as the screensaver came on – today it was pinky-red, as if my computer’s eye were bloodshot with tears that I had abandoned it to find myself some comfort and unpolluted oxygen. Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual, I thought as I wrenched the window outward into the garden air. On days like this, no matter what I wrote, I felt like I was a lovesick teenager pouring insincere emotions out onto a page with phrases like “blackening soul” or “agonising love”. Each word was an unrequited love letter to a flame that had long since gone out; the flame of inspiration.
Ugh! I cringed at the phrasing of my last thought as soon as it materialised. I sighed out at the garden and abandoned the rest of the morning to daydreams about alternative career paths.
I really enjoyed reading this. Pretty much summed up my entire last years experience with writing. You painted a pretty good picture, though sometimes it was a bit much, like a song constantly being played on a high note. But over all, nice job.
Thank you for this post, Joe. I’ve never read a book about a writers life or experiences, but ‘A Moveable Feast’ sounds like a good read.It comforts me to know that I’m not weird for spending hours trying to finish three paragraphs. Anyway, here’s the beginning of my WIP:
Seated in the lonely park bench, dressed dapperly with a grey bandanna ’round his neck and a brown satchel beside him, Zachary Dale fixed his eyes on the young woman sitting in the grass field. The sun broke through the clouds, and in so doing, magnified her radiance. He’d been observing many things in the park, such as trees, the grass, the clouds, and even other people. But a subtle difference between her and the rest, was that through his eyes, she glowed. Her head turned to his direction, he pretended to be writing in his notebook.
This had been a pattern for the last several weeks, and over the course of that time, questions had arisen: Why does she always sit in the same place at the same time? Who was she? And why don’t I simply leave this place and continue my travels?
Indeed, he was a traveler. From the arctic wastelands to the Gobi Dessert. From a buttered croissant in Paris, to a chest burning bottle of homemade Vodka. But above all else, in every sense of the phrase, he yearned to touch the heavens. To boldly stand above the clouds on top the worlds watchtower, and feel the beauty of silence in its most pure form. Perhaps then, he may hear the voice of God himself.
“Hello, Zackary.”
Zackary flinched out from his thoughts and looked up to his speaker. It was the woman, standing inches away from him, her golden brown hair eclipsing the sun. He hid his blush, “Sorry for staring.”
“Don’t be,” she said while sitting next to him on the bench, “Though, I must admit, you’ve got a good deal more patience than myself. Usually it’s the man who asks the woman to dance.”
“Might I ask how you knew my name?”
She pointed to his satchel. ‘Zackary’ was sewed onto the front flap…
Bonjour, Joe, et bienvenue en France à toi et à ta petite famille !
Just a little word to say that it is “Bonne chance !”, my dear ! (See, I’ve read your prompt ’til the last words !)
Thanks for your daily wonderful advices. Hope you enjoy your stay ! Don’t hesitate to write about this habit French people share, to be disagreeable with foreigners : we, french ones, often forget it and we need someone to remind us that even english speaking ones are real persons, who deserve respect, too…
Thanks for correcting me, Joy! I’ve fixed it. You’ll have to excuse mon beaucoup mauvais Francais!
I’ve had great luck with the French so far, so don’t worry. It helps though that I’m traveling with a very cute one year old baby. 🙂
I stared out the car window as the rain fell down leaving drops of patterns. The sky looked bleak and hopeless like my life. I listened to radio as the suffocating sileince of my dad in the car the lyrics because of you played softly in the background. The worn out road to the new house was riddled with pot holes that were forgotten we pulled into the driveway of the house the sad little thing. I felt the urge to hide and forget everything the death, the drinking, the abuse. I held on to the boxes on my lap and stepped out of the car. “CJ stupid girl you need the keys”. My dads roughly yelled at me. “Yes dad sorry”. I said faintly. “Speak up louder”. He yelled. I said it once more a little louder but my voice filled unease. I stepped into the house. A chill went up my spine the small house wasn’t welcoming at all. After moving in and unpacking I found my dad passed out on the couch with a bottle of whisky. I looked at him sadly and walked up stairs the old wooden stairs creeped from years of use. I stepped in my room closing the door softly. I laid down on my bed and cried softly. I woke up the next day and walked to my dads hardware store. The smell of metal, paint, and sawdust lingered. I sat behind the counter waiting for costumers. I stared at the clicking watching the hours slowly tick by. I snapped out of day dreaming at the sound of the bell if the door ring. “Good Day”. I say politely. A old black man smiled kindly at me and nodded. Please stay back there dad. I thought to myself. My dad is the biggest racist you’ll ever meet. Black, Yellow, Red he dosen’t care if your not white then you might as well die. I find no problem with color people. Mom always said to treat everyone with respect. “Miss where can I find this color of paint”. The man showed me a light color of blue. “I’ll get it”. I said. After mixing the paint I talked with him for awhile. “You talk better then most adults”. He said laughing. “Thanks”. I said. “What’s Your name”. “Camile Jazzimine Pines but everyone calls me CJ”. “My name’s Tom Rolk”. After we talked for awhile a I smelled whisky behind me. I turned and saw my dad standing behind me. CJ. I said coldly. “Y.. Y.. Yes dad”. I said. “Give the man his paint and stop talking with him how many times have I told you we don’t talk with people like him”. “Sorry dad”. I said quietly. I looked at tom to say sorry and he nodded. After tom left dad hit in the arm.” Don ‘t you ever do that again”. He yelled. He stumbled back to the office and slept. I grabbed a piece of paper 319 Oakville Dr was written it. I slipped it in my pocket and went back to work.
As a writer who spent nearly nine hours yesterday on an introductory paragraph re-write, I feel this one. Thanks for the reminder that it is supposed to go this way sometimes.
I’ve been looking for an answer for so long!
I’m 17.5. When I was 14, I wrote a whole book. I spent almost all of my summer vacation on it. Since then, I started writing a few stories but never seemed to finish. Every time I had some new idea, I was very enthusiastic about it, but after some time I just lost the motivation to write it.
I’ve searched the internet many times, just wanting to know why I could finish that book, and yet couldn’t finish anything else.
I thought, maybe it’s the characters. I really loved the first book’s characters. And then I started wondering how to create characters I love so much. I didn’t find a satisfying answer till today.
Then I wondered, maybe it’s time. My school has a pretty long school day comparing to other schools around here. I come home in the afternoon, pretty exhausted, and sometimes I don’t feel like sitting and writing.
Or maybe it’s life. I don’t feel very satisfied from life right now. I know I felt like that at 14 as well, but the feeling was a bit different. Maybe if I don’t have motivation for life, then I won’t have motivation as well.
But there’s one thing I know: I never wanna give up.
I’m still looking for an answer, but thank you so much for posting this. It made me feel less like a failure. I should just try and try and try until I get it right. The answer will come by soon.
🙂
Good luck everyone!
(Please forgive my english, if I got any mistakes, it isn’t my native language…)
Awesome stuff, Joe. I have three works in progress at various stages, so this is great help for me to finish. One at a time. You’re right though, the more I write the better it gets.
I’m one of those writers who has a hard time finishing her work. I start novels, but leave them unfinished. In fact, over the last several months I’ve let my writing practice slip because I felt list at sea with my writing. This week however, I set myself a solid thirty minutes a day where I sit down and write. This article came at the perfect time for me. Thanks Joe!
I LOVE creating, but I stopped because of family and career. But, now I want to do it again. I feel
Shakespeare is the ultimate in writing and I think there are only seven plots or so. So every
conceivable plot line has been done, not counting non-fiction. The key here is to make as much
money as possible and then write your greatest work or works. What I am saying is it doesn’t
have to be Shakespeare or Twain or Faulkner, at least your first novel doesn’t. Just write something
that the publisher and people will like and then the rest will be history. Do me a favor, read a quick synopsis on Mickey Spillane. I think it took him a little over two weeks to write his first novel, I, The Jury. Hope this helps. Oh, if any of you make it big, I take 18%.