In the dark drill holes of my heart, I believe no one will read my novel.
I think they will think less of me than I do now.
Like Elliot Smith says in his Waltz – “You’re no good, you’re no good, you’re no good, can’t you tell it’s well understood?”
When I can’t sleep the world disintegrates. The small hours squeeze my heart till it races and races, running a marathon of doubt.
I worry that every person who said I was no good was right.
I miss Elliot Smith. We saw him through the window of a coffee shop on the lower east side once. It was the coolest thing. But he’s gone in the worst way possible. Such a talent, such impossible sadness.
I feel better writing about this feeling, my heart has calmed down.
One month ago today I sent out my first query on my novel Pushed. That was one day after I finished it.
Waiting is agonizing.
I wonder if anyone will want my novel. Am I completely delusional? Will they even read a little bit of it? Did you know that some of these indie publishers receive 7,000 submissions a year? Can you imagine? And if they read the first 10 pages will they read on?
I wonder what my friend Vince will think? I worry he will say it’s not done.
But I feel in my bones that it is. When I first finished in February, I felt close but not quite there but I didn’t know what else to do. So my friend Silvia read it and her insight gave me the clarity of vision I needed. I revised and revised, then Mark read it again and I revised and revised yet again.
Writing is revision.
So this time round I feel that’s it is done except…
It is too long. 600 pages. I hope that won’t dissuade anyone. I’m pretty confident I could cut 50-100 pages, more I’m not so sure.
600 pages is on the long side but it used to be 2,200 pages. So it’s all a matter of perspective.