On Writing: Almost finishing

For me, this time of year is one big contradiction. The air is full of anticipation, of fear and excitement, of change. There’s a melancholy that is crispy, a feeling that alters with each glance and each spinning on the spot. There’s a sense that things can never be as they once were. I like that, I think, sometimes. I like that nature signals and guides. I hate that I don’t know what will happen next.

I’ve been writing. And this means that I’ve been thinking and dwelling and making sense of chaos. Novel 4 (it needs a name!) is different to my others. It’s full of longing and regret. I thought it was a love story, but I think I was wrong, I guess it’s more a story about love. Maybe that reflects where my head’s been at this year, maybe not. But I have realised that I struggle with the word ‘regret’. It bothers me. I’m not a ‘used to’ or a ‘wish I had’ kind of person. I grab and I run with it or from it. I could never be accused of living in my past. I’ve been told that’s a negative, but I don’t think so. I like that I take chances, I like that I never go back. I’d hate to be dying and whisper, ‘You know, I wish I’d…’.

Reaching the end of a story means that I’m reaching the end of a chapter in my own life. This final push, this final spilling and not knowing if what I’ve created is good enough. That’s the scary part of novel writing. That’s the conflicting part, the bit where I’ve spent months building and not sharing and now I have to prepare myself for letting others in. It’s terrifying.

But, we all know that writing is all about courage. I’ve only ever met one writer who thought they were amazing, s/he said it a few times and each time it shocked me. I think most of us seem to struggle with the voice that’s constantly saying, ‘YOU’RE RUBBISH, YOU ARE!’. That voice has been my friend for a few years now. I’m hoping it’ll keep me company for a bit longer.

But, for now, I’ve a novel to finish by the end of this month, maybe, sort of, I really should. Oh…