I’ve been writing seriously for over ten years now. And by “seriously” I mean writing novels and short stories with an eye toward publication. I’ve published one nonfiction book, and one work of autobiographical fiction. I also coach writers, so I’ve edited countless manuscripts.
Last month I finished the first draft of my next nonfiction book. I’ve spent the last year reading and researching, and the past six months painstakingly writing out each chapter. “I’ve got this,” I thought to myself all summer long. “I finally know what I’m doing.”
Then, a week ago, I read through the entire first draft.
And immediately went into the black pit of despair.
It was 2008 and I had just finished the sloppy first draft of my very first novel. It had taken me two years to write it. Two, long crazy years during which I painstakingly cobbled together the book piece by bloody piece. I felt like I had opened up my heart and vomited out everything it held onto the page.
Needless to say, it was a bit messy. It kind of looked like something that had just crawled out of a moat.
In our world, everything keeps getting faster.
Even in just the last one hundred years, the pace of modern society has zoomed forward astronomically. We jump online and talk to friends instantly, or we jump on a plane and travel a distance in one day that would have taken months using an old-fashioned horse and carriage. We get information where and when and how we need it, and it seems like every kind of commodity we could ever want or need is available at our mega-superstores.