I’m supposed to start rewriting, today.
I gave myself a couple of weeks to read through my draft and make notes and edits and sit with the work, convinced that I’d have a clear map and a new understanding of where this book was going. I’ve had moments and flashes of terrific inspiration and insight, there is no doubt. Moments of excitement and stubborn fortitude, almost convinced that I can do it.
I CAN do it.
I don’t know where to start.
I don’t get a nifty little instruction guide when I Google: “How to start rewriting your book.”
I wrote this blog post, to get me warmed up. Maybe it’ll help.
I also have two kids in the house on summer break driving me a little nuts, a veterinarian appointment for the dog, a skimpy fridge, two loads of laundry to fold still, and breakfast, lunch, and dinner to think about for all of us. And my floors are dirty.
I hate dirty floors.
But not as much as I hate having an unfinished story. That bugs me to no end.
Wouldn’t it be terrible if someday this was said about me: she couldn’t finish her book, but damn it, her floors were clean?
I’d die of regret. I really would.
This isn’t rocket science, for sure. It’s not as simple as just “hiring someone” to clean floors. That might help in the short term, but becoming a writer isn’t about quick fixes. It’s about establishing habits and routines that get the books written.
I’m still tweaking. There is no instruction manual on how to do this, so I’ll have to write my own. I want a clean house, a happy and healthy family, and a finished book. I want it all.
I may not be a rocket scientist, but I am a fine juggler, keeping all of the balls in the air. Most days I do pretty good. Some days, the book project falls just out of my grasp.
Then again, some days, my kids eat crap and the floors stay dirty and the words get written.
I guess it’s about priorities, and choices.
June 1st. Today is the day. Time to call the cleaning lady. Time to call Grandma for an overnight for the kids.
Time to start my rewrite.