Are We Really Doing This?

In every difficult and lengthy project, there comes a time to ask this hard question. And then laugh maniacally in this hard question's smug face. That time is now.

Beginnings are thrilling, and endings are jubilant, but middles are just a slog, man. Hey, isn’t it such fun to start something new? You get to toss those balls up in the air, watch them spin around in the sun being colorful and interesting, and you’re not bothered to worry about what you’re going to do when they start to come down. You brainstorm, and imagine, and sketch. It’s all in development It’s explosive sometimes. But eventually, the beginning is over. And having galloped madly through the excitement of starting a new project, you now stare out over the vast expanse of grey hopelessness that is the cruel, long middle. At this time, it’s important to do a gut check.

Gut, are you up for the grind?

Gut, are you going to handle your shit?

Gut, can you finish this?

Gut? You there? Just checking.

Right now my head is overflowing with super great ideas for novels, all of which will definitely fall right out of my hands like rain into the keyboard, only instead of water that damages the keys it will be perfect chapters. Yep. And I know from experience that if I pick up one of those shiny new beginnings and play with it for a while, it will also become a grindy, difficult middle. Everything always does.

Like cleaning my closets. It’s the beginning! I pull everything out of the caves and off the shelves. Exhilarating. This is real change! Anything is possible — I might become one of those people whose closets have actual floors they can see and even walk on! I might write a novel that shakes the culture by its ears. And then I’m sitting on my bed in the middle of all my clothes, including band t-shirts from 1995 and last year’s leggings. And there in the middle I have to ask myself, “Am I really doing this?”

Or am I shoving everything back in the closet, locking the door, lighting the house on fire, and moving to a new state? Because starting my whole life over seems preferable to picking up each piece of clothing, examining it, evaluating it, and disposing of it. And going through all the work (fun!) of brainstorming a new novel (easy!) is preferable to writing chapter 2-23 of this one. (yuck!) So, am I really doing this?

Years ago, when I was finishing my first novel, Shine Shine Shine, and I had two small children and I was homeschooling them and also working as a freelance editor, I had a conversation with myself very late at night that went something like this:

I want to stop writing my novel. This is too hard.

Fine, stop.

What?! You’re not going to argue with me?

No. It’s one o’clock in the morning, and I’m tired.

But you need to remind me of how much I’ll be letting down my family and friends, and all my literary idols, and specifically Herman Melville.

Girl, nobody really cares if you stop writing that novel. Sure, some people will hum and chirp things like they do, because they love you, and want the best for you, but ultimately, everyone’s going to be just fine without this novel. Nobody cares about this but you. Definitely not Herman Melville.

Well, of course, that soul-blistering moment of horror led me to get right up on my hind legs and finish writing that novel. Because I did care. And that’s the kind of one-in-the-morning, dark-kitchen, no-soundtrack, no-observers realization we all have to have right now, at the end of the first three months, at the end of the beginning. The middle of a novel is hard. I need to buckle up, and be reminded: I’m the driver, I’m the passenger, I’m the guy getting run over in the road, I’m the guy tied up in the trunk, I’m the guy asleep in the back, I’m the roller skate waitress serving them all fries — this is my project and I care about it.

And I am really doing this. I’ll shout it into my own ear in the middle of the night. I’ll shout it into yours if you’re around. And next week, we’ll get into the tough work that will carry us through the middle and out the other side.