I’m sweating. Metaphoric sweat, but sweat none-the-less. It’s beading on my forehead and running in little rivers down my sides. Wondering if I’ll be able to finish this book.
I have some changes to make on the manuscript for my novel. I have notes from my editor. Suggestions. Most of them are of the forehead-smacking ‘of course! you’re right!’ variety. Some are surprising. All of them require more. More from me. They require me to dig deeper, go harder, dive, dive, dive. I need to move things around, change things up. Wade back into that sea of words.
So far I have done a lot of thinking. A lot of note writing. A lot of sweating. When the boys go back to school, I will do a lot of writing. And more sweating.
I’m worried that I’m not up to the challenge. I go to bookshops and run my fingers along the shelves. All of those clever people with their witty turns of phrase and their convoluted plot lines. Can I do this? Really? Who do I think I am?
I am lucky. I have a husband who knows me well. “Can I do this?” I ask. “You did it in the first place,” he says. “Of course you can.”
I have friends who write books. I call them. “Can I do this?” They tell me that everyone feels this way (good news). With every book (not so good news – this novelist thing is not for the fainthearted).
I will do it. I did not come this far to turn back now.