I’ve known for a while that there is a serious problem with the structure of my memoir. I’ve stopped sending it out to agents. I don’t look at it on my computer. I’ve been pretty much pretending that it doesn’t exist.
Then last week I got a rejection that actually explained in words that penetrated my thick head what the book specifically needed in order to be successful. Angels sang. Well, no. There was cussing, despairing, groveling, grieving, and then the angels hummed a little beneath their breath. Out of tune.
I’m cutting and expanding. But not just a scene here and a scene there. No. I’m clearcutting and planting new species of trees. I’m changing a forest into a meadow. Please stop me before I plow this metaphor to the ground.
I’ve been pantsing it (writing by ear, seeing how it goes) for six years. It’s time for a fucking outline. I know I’ve said it before; but this time I mean it. Are you tired of writerly resolutions? I am. And yet, that spark is keeping me going.
What keeps you going?