Last night one of my friends told me that I was living with the dead. She said it wasn’t very good for me, and was making me have a hard time seeing the living. I do not live in a paranormal novel.
I am in a strange place with the memoir. A lot of the chest-thumping grief-laden portions are written out. And then I get told that the grief sounds just one note. I need more notes to write a book. I don’t think that friend is wrong either.
This is the place where I could imagine giving up (although I won’t, because if I’m going to lose all my friendships over a book, I’ll be damned if I don’t get a book out of the process).
I have written it out, and now I have to shape the unwieldy pile of words. I have to add layers. I’m still creating the house, placing the rooms, it is not yet time to paint the walls. I’m good at painting, but I’m not much of an architect.
Time to learn.
What keeps you from giving up?