Writer’s Filter

Writer’s block sometimes is about what needs to be said first

I have an almost-complete first draft of a novel I finished last year. I’ve carried it around with me in the intervening time, the intent to edit and polish it on my virtual agenda every. single. day. I read through the draft recently on a cross-country trip, the first time I’d acquainted myself with the story through the eyes of an editor.

It wasn’t bad.

There are holes, and some inconsistencies, and some relationships that need beefing up, but on the whole, I accomplished what I’d set out to do. Editing is hard in its own right, and not necessarily the fun part of the process, but I have a lot to work with. I don’t need a page-one rewrite.

But I haven’t even been able to make headway on copy edits.

I’ve debated the psychology of this resistance. Do I think it’s a waste of time, trying to get my work in the marketplace? Would even my friends and family have difficulty giving positive feedback? Am I afraid of failure, however that might be defined? What do I think I have to contribute? These doubts are nothing if not cliche. That doesn’t make them less germane.

Still, I wondered why I couldn’t take on the role of editor with more gusto. I could shake my head in disbelief at the error of my own ways! I could rip things apart and suggest fascinating alternatives for putting them back together! I could tell myself to get over myself and bang out something more worthy of me!

I liked all of these approaches. I’d use them with other writers, if any would listen. Do we ever listen to each other, we writers?

But there was a stranglehold on my energy, a frustration born of having other ideas, other perspectives that wanted their time out of my head and into play. People don’t have time for true conversation. We barely cover the basics these days, when we’re able to grab coffee or make the most of running into someone we haven’t seen since we had to reschedule our last get-together. It serves no one if we choose not to speak.

So I’ve decided to write about whatever I need to in the service of making way for the more ambitious, more challenging work of finishing the book. This isn’t to say that writing on “whatever” is easier; I fear it won’t be. But if I don’t edit myself quite so harshly, perhaps the barrier to the page won’t continue to fortify itself with confusion, frustration, and doubt.

Consider this the first pass with the new filter. The next will have fewer particulates, I hope.