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.
I got sucked into looking at old photo albums last weekend.
As I flipped through the glossy pages I leaned closer to examine this young woman in all the pictures. Was that really me? I could hardly believe it. Twelve years ago I was a party girl living in Seattle with no attachments. I was posed with people I haven’t talked to in years, wearing clothes that I wouldn’t dream of wearing today. My only goal in life at that time was to get myself to the bar every night.
What is it about writing a book that’s so hard?
Obviously, we know it’s a lot of mental work. Committing to the time, unraveling plot and character, editing and revisions. Every step of the process takes energy and attention out of our already busy lives. But for anyone who’s ever tried, it becomes apparent that the hardest part isn’t the time or effort involved.
